Conspiracies: Revelations
by LianneZ4
Summary: When Mozzie, a brilliant scientist and law-abiding citizen, got caught in the middle of a dangerous conspiracy, he asked Neal for help. For a month, they successfully evaded their hunters… until it all went south. Suddenly Neal's life is in peril and Mozzie is desperately searching for allies. Who is the mysterious Suit and what is Peter Burke's role in the events? AU
1. Prologue

**CONSPIRACIES: REVELATIONS**

**Summary: **When Mozzie, a brilliant scientist and law-abiding citizen, got caught in the middle of a dangerous conspiracy, he asked Neal for help. For a month, they successfully evaded their hunters… until it all went south. Suddenly Neal's life is in peril and Mozzie is desperately searching for allies. Who is the mysterious Suit and what is Peter Burke's role in the events? Will they expose the nefarious plot, and what will happen to the three of them before this all is over? AU.

**Content Notice:** Torture, violence, trauma, a minor occurrence of casual homophobia.

_**A/N: **__This story is a direct sequel and contains numerous spoilers to my earlier work __**Conspiracies**__, though i__t can be read without knowing the original story. If you haven't read the original, proceed at your own discretion._

_I probably would have never finished this without the help and support of __**treonb**__ and __**nywcgirl**__ from livejournal – they were amazing. I also have to thank __**mam711**__, who beta-read the story._

_This story is complete; chapters will be posted over the next few days. As always, reviews are very much appreciated._

* * *

><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

The year was 1976, Detroit, when Isaac Jeffries found a baby on the doorstep of his orphanage. The baby was tucked in a basket, with a teddy bear tagged "Mozart" and no name or indication where he came from. Mr. Jeffries took the little boy to the orphanage, where the nurses checked him over before proclaiming him healthy. After a short discussion with the rest of the staff, boy-with-the-teddy-bear was given the name "Paul" and placed with the rest of the babies.

In the years that came, Paul became one of Mr. Jeffries's most favorite and most difficult wards. Short, with thick glasses and too smart for his age, the boy stood out, never quite fitting in with the rest of the kids. Years passed and Mr. Jeffries watched as Paul slowly learned how to build invisible walls and skillfully manipulate people, protecting himself with his smarts and a never-ending supply of quotes. After going through several foster families, Paul started running away, disappearing into the streets of Detroit for days, then weeks. Each disappearance left Mr. Jeffries increasingly worried and sad, because he knew that unless something happened, he was going to lose Paul. Then a childless couple in their forties came to his orphanage, informing Mr. Jeffries that they were looking for an older child.

Mrs. Handerson was an expert on nuclear physics, Mr. Handerson a kindergarten teacher, and even though he promptly introduced them to Paul, Mr. Jeffries had been wary to let his hopes up. However, ten months after meeting him, the Handersons officially adopted Paul as their son. At the age of 13, boy-with-the-teddy-bear gained a family.

Twenty two years later, "Paul Handerson" was a brilliant scientist; an expert on biophysics and biochemistry with a decent background in medicinal biology and neurology; an occasional university teacher, solemn and somewhat reclusive, only close to a special handful of people. He was addicted to his tea and mindful of his gluten and lactose-free diet, he had a crush on a receptionist of the hospital they worked with but couldn't bring himself to ask her out, and he knew that his research – _his research_ – was almost ready for the second stage of human trials. Paul was eagerly awaiting recognition, finally being accepted and appreciated by the world – but it was more than that. The world had granted him a new life and a wonderful, loving family after Paul had given up on them, and he wanted to make them proud and do something good in return. Paul was a man who enjoyed his job, believed in the future and followed the law.

Then, on one completely ordinary October morning, something happened that changed everything.…

o - o - o

**Five Weeks Ago**

That morning, Paul had entered his office in an exceedingly good mood, smiling and humming a half forgotten tune. "Hello, Anthony, mon frère!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Guess what we'll be doing today?"

Anthony the plush penguin remained silent. Paul didn't mind.

Although Paul Handerson's desk had seemingly been organized in the same way for over two years (down to the plush penguin on the left side, the teacup close to the right side and notes, files and papers neatly placed in various drawers), it was a testament to the strange workings of Paul's brain that nobody but him could ever find anything there without a long and messy search. Paul claimed astonishment and confusion whenever one of his frustrated colleagues called him on his ways, but secretly took pride and glee in their difficulties. His research was important, and nobody was able to go through his stuff without him noticing.

Following his morning routine, Paul turned on him computer and then made his tea while the computer was coming to life.

Opening his mailbox, Paul started sorting through his messages. The initial stage of human trials looked cautiously promising, the neurologist from the cooperating team informed him, and so far none of the volunteers were showing any severe adverse effects to the drugs. Happy at the news, Paul then deleted several spams, including five Viagra offers and a cheerful announcement that he had won $10,000,000 and could he please send his personal details and account number – yeah, right! He typed a quick reply to the letter from his cousin, who told him that his nephew had made it to the basketball team, and was about to close his mailbox when another email arrived from … Laura Norris? Paul frowned. The email address belonged to the university and the name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't recall from where.

No subject. Wait, wasn't there a Laura at the financial department? If his budget was about to be cut.… Suddenly nervous, Paul silently braced himself for the bad news before clicking on the email.

_Dear Mr. Hammond,_

_Thank you for your cooperation. The previous batch is proving to be very satisfactory. On top of our original agreement, we will need an additional __1,500 __grams of the compound. Just as before, we will provide you with the necessary resources._

_L. Norris_

Hmm. Definitely not the financial department, then.

Paul blinked. He had worked with Dr. Hammond before on modifying some naturally occurring molecules – in fact, Hammond was the chemist who had synthesized "Carbamate 504", the key compound of Paul's research – but why had he received the email? Probably just an address mishap. He was about to delete the message when the screen froze.

"Oh, not _again_!"

Frustrated, Paul started clicking on the mouse button. Then suddenly, the whole screen went black. After battling with the computer for a couple of minutes, Paul finally pressed the reset button and watched as the computer reloaded, acting completely normal.

Just to be safe, Paul had the antivirus check the whole system. Everything worked perfectly, except for the last email message, which had disappeared from his computer. Since it wasn't for him anyway, Paul just shrugged his shoulders. He had work to do here, after all.

o - o - o

It was three days later as he was returning from his lunch break that Paul dropped by to see Dr. Hammond about some analytical data.

"If you'll wait a moment, he should be back in about ten minutes," said one of Hammond's assistants.

"As they say, patience is a virtue," replied Paul cheerfully and took the offered chair. The assistant gave him a weird look before shaking his head and leaving. The laboratory remained empty except for Paul and a young woman in a lab coat who was busy with a distillation at the other side of the room. Sitting on the chair and waiting, Paul kept casting looks around the lab just to keep himself occupied. Suddenly, his eyes stilled on an innocent looking jar with light yellowish powder.

He stood up and went to check the jar's label, confident that his eyes had just played a trick on him. But as he picked up the jar, he realized that his first impression had been right – it was Carbamate 504, the central compound of his research, prepared by Dr. Hammond himself. Except Paul had never requested such a big amount before.

As Paul stared at the familiar structure drawn on the label, his brain was busy processing the possibilities. Why didn't he know about this? The battles for grants and funding were sometimes vicious; was someone trying to steal his research? "I'm sure there is a perfectly good explanation," he murmured softly … but he was already running over various increasingly bizarre scenarios.

He looked around and realized that the young chemist he had seen before had left to tend to the HPLC machine in the next room. The laboratory was empty except for him.

It was a coincidence or miscommunication. He was being paranoid. There was nothing wrong with– "Screw it," muttered Paul. One eye nervously watching the door, he went to check the rest of the lab.

Apart from several smaller flasks, there was a huge apparatus in Dr. Hammond's fume hood. There was a number drawn on it, but without any signature initials unlike the other flasks. Filled with a mixture of suspicion, guilt and glee, Paul quickly glanced around before opening Dr. Hammond's lab diary.

The number wasn't there – at least, not in the official notes. However, there were several freely inserted pages, describing the synthesis of Carbamate 504, but in much bigger quantities than he had ever requested.

Working fast, Paul got a brief look at all of the pages. Then he closed the lab book and went back to his chair, barely in time before the girl returned from the neighboring room to continue her distillation. A minute later, Dr. Hammond finally showed up, and Paul talked to him about the analyses that they needed for his research project. However, most of his thoughts were already elsewhere.

With those pages imprinted in his brain, Paul was going to get some answers.

o - o - o

Dr. Hammond had misunderstood or plainly ignored Paul's question about Carbamate 504. After recalling his notes in the privacy of his own home and asking some inconspicuous questions, Paul was able to account for all of the man's large-scale experiments – except for the synthesis of Carbamate 504. Which led him to his only other lead.

Laura Norris was a 27-year-old Ph.D. quantum physics student, whose official project had completely no ties to Dr. Hammond's laboratory. Which meant that her email to him made no sense. Which meant that something suspicious was going on.

Why was Hammond preparing so much of the essential drug of Paul's research?

There should be a logical explanation. Since there wasn't, that meant that one of Paul's theories had to be true. He was going to find out which one it was.

o - o - o

In fact, Laura Norris was much more than just a Ph.D. student. She was a member of a secret organization who had been stealing Paul's research for months. In a rare unguarded moment, Paul sneaked into her office and hacked into her computer. He stumbled upon a list of code names, dosages and descriptions of the effects of Carbamate 504 on the subjects in question. What he read made his blood run cold.

Paul's aim were treatments that would take months, eventually curing various types of brain damage, combining the usage of Carbamate 504 with tiny and precise electronic impulses. The document, however, suggested using his methodology in a much more brutal way for indoctrination, interrogation – and torture. Despite the lack of names, it was obvious that the test subjects mentioned were real people.

Paul barely had the time to close the document when Laura Norris returned. Somehow, he lied his way out of the following conversation. Shell-shocked, he then returned to his own laboratory, but he was too distracted to focus on anything. He left work three hours before his usual time and headed to his favorite spot by the river to think.

What was he going to do?

The blue waters of the river held no answers.

Eventually, Paul headed home, knowing he still had a decision to make.…

o - o - o

It was close to eight p.m. when Paul arrived to the street where he lived. For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of light in his apartment, but then he told himself that it was an imagining of his troubled mind. Entering the building, he decided to take the stairs to the third floor instead of calling the elevator. As he reached his apartment, he pulled out his keys, unlocked the door and stepped inside. And froze.

Someone was inside.

There were people with flashlights, he realized, maybe three or four of them, dressed in black suits. They had pulled down the window curtains to hide the light as they were going through his things. Paul's heart skipped a beat when he realized that they were armed.

As if in slow motion, one of the intruders raised her head and stared him right in the eye. In the surreal moment, Laura Norris raised her gun and aimed it at Paul's chest. "Professor Handerson–"

"They'll hear if you shoot me," he blurted out.

"He's right. You screwed up – _again_," said one of the other people. "Handerson–"

Laura started reaching for a knife.

Paul launched himself at the door. He ran down the stairs and into the streets. With shaking hands, he unlocked the door of his Nissan Cube and started the engine. Driving away, he saw Laura in the rear-view mirror, followed by two other people as they ran into the street and jumped inside a black car.

Speeding forward, Paul pressed his cell phone into the hands-free device and dialed 911.

"_911. State your emergency."_

"Yes, _help!_ There's definitely an emergency! I – what's that?" Paul cast a quick glance at the telephone. The call had been cut off. Dialing the number again, it repeatedly came as busy. His breathing shortened.

_They were after him. They were trying to get him._

_If he had learned one thing from watching America's Most Wanted, it was that car chases never ended well._

He needed a plan.

_Mozzie_, his brain whispered. _Neal. _His friend had a hideout nearby. He had given him the location of his safe house in case of emergency. This definitely qualified as such.

_(And he was most certainly driving over the limit, so where were the police when you needed them?!)_

A car was fast, but also easier to follow than a man on foot – and his beautiful Nissan was sadly very noticeable. Thinking quickly, Mozzie calculated how far it was to the nearest subway station. If he could slip his pursuers just for a moment.…

The outside parking spot at the nearby shopping center was likely to be full of people and therefore, potential witnesses.

He kept driving as his mind began to come up with a plan.…

o - o - o

Sometimes, it paid off to be friends with the best thief on the planet. Of course, being underestimated by your enemies had value on its own.

Mozzie had made it to Neal's safe house. He found everything as Neal had described it – a small, cheap apartment with a couple rooms and barely any furnishing. He locked the door, knowing it would provide him with little protection if he had been followed, and then rushed to the bedroom where Neal had supposedly hid his – and Mozzie's – "escape kit". His hands were shaking when he found a bag full of money, some clothes in his size, two burner phones and a fake ID with his own face – no guns, though. He wished he had something to defend himself with.

For a moment, Paul kept staring at his photo attached to a foreign name, before he choked on bile and turned on his heels. He barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

_It wasn't real. It was a nightmare. It couldn't be.… It wasn't real._

He wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet. "You're going to get yourself killed," said Mozzie to himself and rose up on his unsteady feet. He felt cold sweat on his back as he realized that he had left the door unwatched. Yet the fact that nobody had come bursting through the door gave him some hope.

He went to get one of the burner phones in the bedroom (he had ditched the battery to his own cell long before coming to the apartment) and on impulse collected a heavy stone vase from the kitchen. If someone came after him, he wouldn't be completely defenseless.

It was then that he realized that his trousers were torn and his leg was slightly bleeding. Apparently Laura's thrown knife hadn't completely missed after all. Thankfully, Neal had a first aid box in the bathroom for a case like this. After removing the trousers, Mozzie washed the blood away before applying a healthy portion of disinfectant and finally covering the scratch with a bandage. He was going to need a few stitches to fix this, thought Moz.

He put his trousers back on, and then started shivering as reality hit him again.

_They were abusing his research. They had come to his apartment. They had pulled a gun on him._

He needed to do something. He needed help. (He couldn't trust anyone.) He needed.…

_Neal._

Mozzie dialed his friend's number, knowing nothing of the events to come that he had just set in motion.

o - o - o

Two weeks later, sitting in a car at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, Neal Caffrey stared at the sleeping shape of his best friend. He knew he would have to wake him up, yet hated himself for it. Over the last couple of weeks, Neal had seen Mozzie wake up with nightmares far too many times, and he knew how precious sleep was. Feeling a wave of love and protectiveness, he wanted to hug Moz while angrily thinking of the people who had driven them to this, to running from place to place and constantly looking over their shoulders. Neal himself was a retired con man and an art thief, but Moz was just a scientist who hadn't done anything wrong. He didn't deserve this.

The problem was that they didn't have a choice.

When Mozzie had contacted him that day in the middle of the night, almost hysterical and scared out of his wits, Neal knew he couldn't refuse his distress call. He dropped everything, crossed the state line and went to meet Mozzie at his safe house, determined to resolve the immediate crisis, whatever it was. When Mozzie told him his story and explained that he needed Neal to help him disappear, it was really a simple decision.

While they were on the run, Neal had used his contacts to find out more about Mozzie's pursuers. It was Sally "the Vulture" who had told him about the rumors that the CIA sometimes used Mozzie's university as a research center. Any doubts Neal might have had about Sally's information disappeared over the next few days when he realized just how skilled their enemies were. They were professionals with resources, and if not for Neal's criminal skills, they would have been captured several times already.

Shaking his head, Neal abandoned his thoughts and focused on the present. Checking his cap and his pair of glasses in the mirror, he gently shook Mozzie's shoulder to wake him up. "Hey, Moz…."

His friend blinked before opening his eyes. "Neal? Where are we?"

"I'm going to get us some food and pay for gas," Neal explained. "There's still a bit left, so if I'm not back in ten minutes–"

"I'm not leaving you," interrupted Mozzie.

"– if I'm not back in ten minutes, I want you to drive away to the nearest interstate exit, then find a safe place and wait a few hours until I contact you. Okay?" He didn't wait for an answer as he started climbing out of the car, and was surprised when Mozzie grabbed his jacket. "What?"

"Neal – be careful."

Neal smiled. "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing."

Despite his words, he knew that Mozzie was right – he couldn't allow himself to be recognized. On top of everything else, the CIA had somehow framed him for a theft of a hundred-year-old painting – a Mondrian, to be exact – and thus managed to set the FBI on their tracks. Neal briefly wondered whether Peter was on the case. He hoped not. Although he rather liked his "friendly adversary", Peter had already caught him once, and while that had been partially due to Neal's own cockiness, the fact was his arrest had cost Neal several years in prison. Being arrested now could lead to Mozzie's capture, and Neal was simply not willing to take that risk.

For the first time in a while, Neal allowed himself to feel some irritation on his own behalf. After prison, he had tried to go straight, trading the rush of a con for being able to walk through the streets without tensing at every uniform or cop car in the vicinity. And he still missed the thrill, but the truth was that before the CIA interfered, he had been – content – with his new life as the best security consultant in the country.

_If this thing ever ended, would he have to rebuild everything from scratch?_

Picking two bottles of soda and some snacks, Neal paid for the gas and then went to pump a full tank. They had a lot more distance to cover tonight, after all.

o - o - o

'_Neal, I don't want to _run and hide_. I want to expose them.'_

Sometimes, Neal wanted to strangle Mozzie for his bullheaded idealism. Yet as he packed his own duffle bag, which carried just clothes, money and no true personal effects, he thought he understood where Moz was coming from. Neal might have been used to this sort of life, but it would be foolish to expect the same from Mozzie. His friend had deep ties to his family, his job and friends. Combine that with the fact that the CIA was using the procedure he himself had developed, and it was clear why Moz wouldn't just let things be.

That didn't mean that he didn't wish Mozzie had been content to stick to the original plan.

Then again, if they were really going to do this, then they better do it right, and the first thing they needed was more information. It was just as well that Neal knew a hacker who could help them….

Despite his misgivings, Neal smiled. They were heading back to New York.

o - o - o

It was late in the afternoon when Special Agent Peter Burke decided to take a break and went downstairs to make a cup of coffee.

As he poured the hot brown liquid into his coffee mug, Peter allowed himself to relax for a moment. He had spent the last two hours working on an embezzlement case, reading through financial records and trying to tie the money transfers to a specific person. However, after going over the numbers for the third time without finding a pattern, he finally admitted to himself that he was feeling distracted – and he knew exactly what the reason was.

He was waiting for a warrant that – if granted – could lead him straight to Neal Caffrey and end the chase that had been renewed roughly three weeks ago.

Taking a sip of his coffee, Peter grimaced at the bad taste. Then he had to smile despite himself.

Neal should have known better than to try to send a message to his landlady. Thanks to his mistake, Peter was now just an inch from tracking him down, and that knowledge alone was enough to get his heart racing. Truth to be told, the competitive side of Peter was delighted at going after Caffrey again. Neal was incredibly smart but nonviolent, which made catching him an intriguing challenge rather than just a usual part of the job. The fact that Neal treated the chase as a game between them only added to the enjoyment of it all.

_Or at least he used to._

In a corner of his mind, Peter had to admit to being just a bit disappointed that he had yet to receive some sort of obscure message or a calling card from Neal. Maybe it was because of his new associate, the so-called "Mozzie Haversham". It was hard to believe that he had never heard of the guy before until an outside source pointed him out to them. Peter was the ultimate Caffrey expert; he should have known if Neal had some sort of secret partner. Maybe he had met him through someone in prison? Either way, there had to be a reason why Neal was acting different from before, and Peter was more than willing to blame it on the mysterious "Haversham".

If the warrant came through, he might be able to ask Neal about that within the next few days, before the con man went straight back behind bars. That thought dampened some of Peter's glee. Catching Neal might have felt like the sweetest victory, but seeing him sentenced had brought an unexpected sadness, no matter how much Caffrey had deserved to pay for his crimes.

_As he did now._

They had all possible evidence short of actually catching Neal with the painting. Caffrey had seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth just days before the Mondrian was stolen. His DNA had been found at the crime scene. They had footage of a man that matched Neal's description sneaking out of the museum, even though his face wasn't visible to the camera. Finally, their CI had overheard Caffrey talking about the heist with his accomplice just days before it happened. With Neal's priors, Peter could very well imagine how all that would go in court.

He could worry about Caffrey later. Right now, he had an embezzlement case to work on, decided Peter. Then he went back to his office.

o - o - o

It was the beginning of December, an ordinary afternoon of an ordinary day, and in their temporary apartment in New York, Neal Caffrey was cooking a dinner for himself and Mozzie. He was in a rather good mood – he had just created a back-up plan for himself and Moz in case his and Sally's research blew up in their face. _Mozzie and Sally…_ Neal smiled. He had never expected his friend to fall in love with the hacker, but he had to say that something about the two of them made sense. He just hoped that Moz was safe out there. He knew that Moz had spent some time living on the streets as a teen, and after four weeks of being in hiding, the former scientist had become surprisingly resourceful, but Mozzie's lack of experience was still limiting him severely, especially when their opponents were CIA agents trained to track and kill spies. All in all, Neal knew he would never forgive himself if his friend got hurt because of his mistake.

Neal was almost done with the dinner when he heard the sound of the door opening. "Hey, Moz. How did it go tonight?"

He turned around, the cooking spoon halfway to his mouth. Then he froze.

"I guess this makes me 2-0."

"Peter–"

"Hello again, Neal. You're under arrest."

o - o - o

_A/N: The detailed story from Mozzie's initial call to Neal up to this point is covered in my original story, Conspiracies._


	2. Part I

**PART I**

"_Hello again, Neal. You're under arrest."_

Shock – that was the first thing that hit Neal as he stared at Peter on the other side of the door. _Peter found them._

Then the full weight of reality crashed into him, and the shock was replaced by horror and fear.

Peter found them. Which meant that the FBI knew about him. Which meant that the CIA would most likely know within minutes, if they weren't here already.

They were screwed.

Oblivious to Neal's internal turmoil, Peter smiled at him. "You know, I'd ask if I may come in, but I don't think that would be appropriate in our situation."

Dropping the spoon to his side, Neal slowly shook his head and almost involuntarily took two steps back. "Peter—"

"Uh-uh. You're not escaping this time."

Disregarding the warning, Neal took another step back. "Peter, you have no idea what's going on here."

Stepping inside, Peter closed the door behind himself. The agent turned on his transmitter and brought it to his mouth. "Subject identified. All clear. We'll be out in a moment." He turned the transmitter off and put it back on his belt.

The brief conversation had been all that Neal needed to recollect himself. "On what charge are you arresting me?"

Peter chuckled. "Don't act as if you don't know."

"Peter. _On what charge_ are you arresting me?"

"Well, for starters, there's the Mondrian that you stole from the San Francisco MoMA–"

"I didn't do it," interrupted Neal.

Peter tilted his head in amusement. "Why doesn't it surprise me that you'd say that?"

"No, _I didn't do it_. I know you won't believe me, but …" Neal helplessly tried to formulate his next words in the right way, knowing that there really wasn't one. "… I was framed."

"The same as the last time, eh? You know, given how smart you are, I would have expected you to come up with something more original." Peter's smile faded. He sighed. "Well, fun time's over. Let's go."

Neal shook his head. "I'm not coming with you."

"You really think you have a choice here?"

"Peter, I need you to listen to me."

"Neal. It's over. You're surrounded. Before you get any ideas, my team is in position–"

"Peter, _this isn't what you think it is._" Neal took a deep breath. "Look, I know that I might not be the most trustworthy person in your eyes–"

"Can't imagine why," Peter snorted.

"– but you have to believe me now. I _need_ you to listen to me."

Peter sighed. "Believe _me_, you can't talk your way out of this one."

"I'm _not_ trying to–" Neal paused in frustration. "Two minutes, okay? Give me two minutes and then I'll come with you."

There was a pause.

"Very well. I'm listening."

Neal gave him a tense nod. "Thank you."

He had gotten Peter's attention. That was something, but it would be useless unless he could figure out a way to make Peter believe his story. And what were the chances of that? Telling Peter that the CIA had framed him – it sounded ludicrous, even to himself who knew it to be true.

"Well? Time's running," said Peter a moment later with a glance at his watch.

"Okay. Right."

Once again, Neal considered his options. He could make up a story, but Peter would probably realize it to be a lie – he knew him too well. He could tell him the whole truth and hope that Peter would believe him. Or he could try for something in between and let Peter fill in the blanks.

Neal took a deep breath and began. "About four weeks ago, I was contacted by an old friend – and before you ask, he's not a former accomplice. He's an honest man who worked at the Q— Institute of Science and Medicine."

"Your friend is a university teacher?" interrupted Peter curiously.

"More like a researcher. A biologist, a physicist, mathematician, chemist and analyst – name a science and he's likely an expert. M– Paul is quite the renaissance man," explained Neal in response to Peter's raised eyebrows. He paused. "We've known each other for a long time, but we hadn't been truly close lately. That's why I was surprised when Paul suddenly called me in the middle of the night. He told me that he discovered that his research was being abused, that he feared for his safety and that he needed my help."

"What kind of help?"

Suddenly, Neal's phone buzzed. Distracted, he didn't pay it any attention. "That's not important."

"Really," said Peter skeptically. "If your friend believed that the institute was participating in something illegal, why didn't he report it to the authorities?"

"Not everything immoral is necessarily illegal. Besides, who said he didn't try?" challenged Neal. "And what use would it be if the authorities themselves were involved?"

"Of course you'd say that," murmured Peter under his breath. "What does this has to do with the Mondrian that you stole from MoMA?"

"I told you, I didn't steal it," repeated Neal impatiently.

"Neal, your DNA was at the crime scene, we have a footage of you–"

"Which could have been planted and faked," interrupted Neal. His phone buzzed again.

"That _might_ sound more believable if it wasn't coming from a professional con man," stated Peter dryly.

"Which is _exactly_ why they framed me like this! They needed me out of the way to get to Moz."

"Moz as in Mozzie?" Peter's eyes widened. "The suspect from the Emmerson heist – you were working together!"

"What are you talking about?" asked Neal in dismay.

"Your partner in crime," replied Peter victoriously.

Neal shook his head. "Peter, you got it all wrong."

"You were together in San Francisco. How long have you two been partners?" asked Peter now in full interrogation mode. "Was it before I caught you? What was his part in this heist? The Mondrian –"

"Forget about the damn Mondrian!"

Peter stilled.

Neal ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "Look, I know that we have a past. But Paul doesn't deserve this. Could you for just for a moment suspend your disbelief? You promised that you'd listen to me."

"And you expect me to believe that there's some sort of secret conspiracy?" replied Peter. "Nice try, Neal, but I don't buy it." He paused. "Two minutes are over. Let's go."

"Peter…."

"Neal. It's over. Let's go."

Suddenly Peter's transmitter came to life. _"Boss? Some people are here who claim to be from another agency; they say they're here for Caffrey."_

_The CIA was here. Time was up._

"What? Diana, don't let them in." Peter's eyes were firmly fixed on Neal, watching his every move. "Is this your plan?"

Neal shook his head. "It's them. They came for me."

Peter scoffed. "Cut it out, Neal. The gig is up."

Neal glanced at his surroundings. "Peter, you don't understand. You _have_ to let me go."

"That's enough! I'm calling my team now–"

_Front door was blocked by Peter. Bathroom – too slow. Bedroom – too far. _"Then let me call Moz. I _have_ to warn him! Please, Peter –"

"You know I can't do that," said Peter with a frown. "You'll have your call once we get to the Bureau–"

"They'll never let me make it there."

"What – don't be ridiculous. You can't seriously mean that–"

"_Boss, you're never gonna believe this. Our company's credentials check out. Guess who they are."_

"Who, Interpol? NYPD?"

"_**The CIA," **_Neal said together with the agent from the transmitter.

Peter's eyes widened in surprise. "I don't believe it. Check it again."

"_I checked the database twice. Peter, they're genuine. We're coming up now."_

"Wait!" His gaze firmly fixated on Neal, Peter hesitated. "Diana, stall them."

"_Boss?"_

But Peter had already dropped the transmitter back to his side and was staring unfocused somewhere behind Neal's shoulder, obviously lost in thought.

Neal silently observed the exchange, could almost feel Peter's internal turmoil. While seconds passed, all his cells were screaming at him to run – the CIA was here, every delay was disastrous. However, his instincts, carefully honed by years of being a con man, told him that this was important, that this moment was crucial, that it was time to wait.

Finally, Peter looked straight at him. "What's going on?"

This was Neal's one chance. "I'm telling you the truth, Peter."

Peter opened his mouth to speak–

_Too late._

The sound on the stairwell caused Peter to look away. The split-second diversion was all that Neal needed before he sprang to action.

His one hand slipped into his pocket and picked up the latest call while he leapt towards the window–

"What_ – Neal, no!"_

– but it was already too late.

_**CRASH!**_

Neal clenched his teeth right before his side hit the solid surface. The glass shattered. He flew through the air–

"**NEAL!"**

o - o - o

For a second, Peter just stared as Neal made impact with the closed window – as he jumped out, breaking the glass with his body. He stared at the pieces of glass on the floor. Then his senses came back to him.

A few quick steps brought Peter to the broken window. Distantly, he heard footsteps running up the stairs, but he wasn't paying them any attention. His whole focus was on the space outside – and his heart skipped a beat when he saw Neal's figure lying on the small rooftop about twenty feet below their level.

"Jesus…."

Peter reached for the window's handle, only to hiss in pain as he cut his palm on the broken glass. He jerked back, then carefully opened the window and slightly bent out for a better view.

Neal wasn't moving.

Peter was about to dial the ambulance when the door burst open. Jones, Blake, one other agent of his team – and then three strangers in suits and black glasses that he didn't recognize.

"Peter–"

"Caffrey jumped through the window," Peter stated before Jones had time to finish his question. "I'm calling 911–"

"He's getting away," interrupted one of the strangers sharply and pulled out his own transmitter. "Flynn – Caffrey's coming on the west side. He's on the roof."

Jones spoke: "Diana, he escaped over the rooftop. There's a ladder on the corner of the street–"

"_Copy that." _

"_Got it. Thanks, Jones."_

Peter turned back to the window. "What–"

Apparently while he was faced away, Neal had picked himself up. Peter barely saw him climbing over the edge of the rooftop before he disappeared out of their sight.

Peter released a private breath of relief. He allowed himself a half smile before he returned back to present.

"All right, let's go!" Then he paused as his gaze stopped at the two unknown men and a woman who had entered the room together with his team. "Wait. Who the hell are you and what are you doing in the middle of my operation?"

"Actually, it's you who's interrupting our operation. Agent Greeves, CIA," spoke the shorter of the men as he handed Peter his ID.

_What?_

Mistrustful, Peter took the ID and carefully inspected it, trying to spot any of the telltale marks that it was a fake. Finally, Jones's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "Peter –"

"Right. We'll resolve this afterwards. Let's go."

Pushing his doubts away, Peter went out to do what he was best at – find Neal before he managed to pull another of his famous escapes.

o - o - o

After his feet touched the roof, Neal rolled over several times to break his fall. But even as the world was spinning around him, he already knew that something was wrong. Finally his body stilled, spread on the hard concrete of the roof.

_Shit._

His head and neck had remained mostly protected. His arms on the other hand were scraped and bleeding – that was what he got for wearing an undershirt for this sort of stunt. Lots of bruises that would heal in time. Despite his initial instinct, everything seemed to be in order…. And then Neal tried to stand up and almost cried out as the world went black in pain.

_His ankle was badly sprained._

Hissing and swearing and struggling to get up, Neal finally stumbled to his feet. Disoriented, he half-hopped on one foot when he noticed that his phone has fallen out of his pocket. He picked it up and took a look at his surroundings.

Peter's voice was coming from a distance.

With his ankle, the opposite rooftop wasn't an option. A quick glance revealed that there was a ladder at the edge of the roof. Hobbling on, Neal somehow managed to make it to the ladder in record time. His phone clutched tightly in one hand, he started climbing just as he saw a group of agents staring at him from the broken window and talking to their radios.

Climbing was a struggle. His leg was killing him. Trying not to drop the phone, Neal hissed in pain. _Almost halfway down.…_

His hand slipped and he slid a good two feet before he caught himself again. Pausing for a second he wasn't sure he had, Neal put the phone on speaker before climbing the final four rungs.

"–_Neal?"_

Out of breath, Neal almost cried in relief at Mozzie's voice. "They found me. Peter…. I made a mistake…."

The message for June. Neal had thought that it was perfect, that nobody would be able to figure it out – and nobody would, except for the one man who had already caught him once by knowing his habits and weaknesses. Except for Peter.

And now Mozzie was in danger.

Neal looked over the street before him, only to spot Agent Berrigan and her team walking in his direction. They were looking for him–

And then Berrigan and he made eye contact.

_He wouldn't be able to make it. He was caught. He was.…_

Neal leaned away from the wall and ran until he stumbled into the wider street, almost getting hit by a honking car.

"_**NEAL!**__ What's going on?"_

_He was finished, but Mozzie might still have a chance. _"Don't go back."

Neal quickly told Mozzie of his contingency plan. Except.…

"_I'm not leaving you. If you get caught, I'll find you."_

Jumping sideways to avoid another car, Neal chuckled. "Good joke, Moz."

"_It wasn't a joke, Neal."_

There were houses, but no shops where he could easily hide. His undershirt and the bleeding scrapes made him stand out in the small crowd of people. Then Neal spotted a small stand with cheap goods and clothes. This was his chance.…

Still talking to Mozzie, he wordlessly grabbed a random jacket while pressing two banknotes into the seller's hand, an exchange that took less than five seconds. Putting on the jacket, Neal continued limping through the crowd, only later allowing himself a small look back.

"_I'm not abandoning you!"_

Berrigan or the other agents were nowhere to be seen. Was it possible that he had shaken them off…?

"_If you don't tell me how can I help, I'll turn myself over to the CIA."_

What the hell was _wrong_ with Mozzie?

Neal almost opened his mouth to yell.…

And then he saw Peter, hurrying towards him with two CIA agents and another two men from his own team. At the same time, he spotted Berrigan moving through the street from the other side. It was over.

He had maybe thirty seconds before he was caught. He had to decide fast. Knowing they might be overheard, Neal tried to think of a message for Mozzie.…

"Trust the Suit then."

Almost immediately, Neal was hit by doubt. He thought about taking the statement back and ordering Moz to forget about him.…

But there was no time.

"Goodbye, Moz."

"_What? Neal. NEAL!"_

He hung up.

Peter and his companions were getting closer. Turning around, Neal started walking in the opposite direction … towards Agent Berrigan. Keeping his hands low, he took his phone apart, dumping the battery into a trash can and the phone into an unsuspecting passer-by's pocket.

He made one last attempt at bolting. Minding the cars, he made it across the street.…

Berrigan was yelling at him.…

With the cars between them, Neal pushed himself to keep moving forward–

A taxi. If he made it that far and could just get away a street or two–

And then his body was slammed into a wall.

"Neal Caffrey, you're under arrest on suspicion of art theft and fraud."

Neal turned his head around. "Agent Berrigan."

She barely finished locking the cuffs around his wrists before the rest of the cavalry arrived.

"You have the right to remain silent.…"

"Peter.…"

"Neal Caffrey," stated one of the CIA agents. "We need to talk."

"_You."_ Neal tried to pull away as the man reached for his arm–

– and then he almost fell as his abused ankle finally gave in under him.

Peter caught him just in time. "Hey! Easy." He pulled him back to his feet until Neal could stand again.

The CIA agent frowned. "All right, that's enough. Let's go."

"Wait! Why–"

"You'll have enough time to ask questions once we reach our headquarters," interrupted the CIA agent.

Berrigan frowned. "Peter…?"

Burke shook his head. "Do as he says, Diana. It's their operation now."

"What–"

But Neal's questions were cut short as he was pushed into the back seat of a car, an agent sitting at each of his sides. He tried to reach Peter's eyes in a silent way of communication; however, Peter's face remained closed off, unreadable and blank.

And right then, Neal realized he had made a horrible mistake when he had put his hopes into one Peter Burke.

o - o - o

"I'm not letting him out of my sight."

"Listen, Burke–"

"No, _you_ listen. We had an agreement. And I stand by what I said; I'm not letting Caffrey out of my sight. If you have a problem with that, I'll just take him to the Bureau with me and you can try to sort it out there."

The leader of the CIA team gave him a cold glare. Unmoved, Peter glared back just as effectively.

'_The FBI can have Caffrey after we're done with him,'_ Greeves had stated while they had been hurrying out to find Neal on the street. _'We believe that Caffrey had been smuggling dangerous goods over the borders. We're not sure if he even knew what he was moving,' _he had said before Peter could voice his objections._ 'But for the safety of our nation, we need to talk to him immediately.'_

'_What goods?'_ Peter had asked. _'What dangers?'_ But he had received no answer.

Greeves had given him more important reasons and some vague statements about security clearance that left Peter unimpressed and vaguely disturbed. Neal's accusations, however bizarre, were nagging at his mind. In the end though, Peter had no reason to believe that the CIA agent wasn't telling the truth, and he wasn't willing to risk being wrong and endangering his country based on a mere feeling.

On the other hand, he wasn't about to just surrender his suspect to people he didn't trust – not without keeping an eye on him himself.

"Agent Burke.…"

"It was my team that arrested Caffrey. Like I said, we had an agreement," repeated Peter resolutely. "Look, I'm trying to be reasonable here. If we make an effort, we can work this out. But I am not surrendering Caffrey to you without one of my people present. No offense."

"You don't have the security clearance," opposed Greeves.

"I've been an FBI agent for fifteen years; you've probably already confirmed that. I'm sure you can find a way to allow me to accompany you."

Greeves looked like he had swallowed a lemon before he finally nodded. "Very well. Brett, you can take a ride with Flynn. Agent Burke is coming with us."

"Boss.…"

"It's okay, Diana. I'll meet you later at the office. In the meantime, I want you to do the whole routine – secure Caffrey's apartment, search it, take care of the evidence."

"Actually, my team is already working on that," interjected Greeves.

"Then we can cooperate. Diana, Jones, I have full faith that you can handle it here."

Jones and Diana looked at each other uncertainly before they nodded. "Right. Take care, Peter."

Peter smiled. "I will." Casting a quick glance at Neal in the back of the car, he took the last empty seat next to the driver's.

One last look at his team, and then they took off to the unknown location of a CIA facility.

o - o - o

His hands cuffed, squeezed between the two agents and with his ankle sprained, Neal tried to fight down the rising wave of fear and panic.

He needed a plan. He needed it fast. But his head was empty and he desperately felt that he had run out of options.

The CIA agents had left him with no illusions about the direness of his situation. _'We don't need Burke, and we only need you fit enough to talk. Try to think of that before you do anything stupid."_

He had to get Peter out of the car before things went to hell.

As much as he usually abhorred the New York traffic, right now Neal wished it was thicker to slow them down. As it was, their black sedan was moving way too fast, heading for the less inhabited parts unknown and smaller, lesser known roads.

_He hoped Mozzie had listened to his warnings. He hoped he would be smart enough to take his new identity and get out. Maybe Sally would talk some sense into him.…_

He was pulled out of his thoughts when Peter cleared his throat. "So where exactly are we going?"

Greeves shot him a brief glance. "Our station in New York is–"

"_**WATCH OUT!"**_

As in slow motion, Neal saw a blue van appear unexpectedly from a side alley, coming at them from the right side. In last second, the agent driving tried to steer the wheel.…

_**CRASH!**_

_Too late._

The force of the impact threw them all to the left, only their seatbelts keeping them seated. As the car continued moving, they narrowly missed crashing into another vehicle going the opposite direction. Honking, screeching of the breaks… Finally everything stilled.

_The car had stopped moving. They were alive._

For a few seconds, there was just a tense silence. Finally, Neal allowed himself a shaky breath of relief. Then he looked around properly and all the relieved feelings died right there and then.

"_Peter–"_

"Quiet."

The words froze in Neal's throat as he felt the cold steel of a gun firmly pressed to his side. But he couldn't keep his eyes off Peter in the front seat.

The right front side of the car had taken most of the hit. Barely conscious, Peter was quietly moaning. The side of his head was marked by an ugly gash that was bleeding rather heavily.

"Agent Burke?" called the CIA agent on the left of Neal before he stood up and climbed out of the car, seemingly to check on Peter.

'_Pick the cuffs,'_ motioned the other agent next to Neal silently.

Neal shook his head.

'_Do it.'_

"No."

A brutal jab of the gun into his ribs had him gasping in pain. "What will they think if they find him dead and you missing?" murmured the agent into his ear. "Pick. The. Cuffs."

Swallowing, Neal obeyed the order and then remained very still in his seat. Suddenly, another car arrived and a group of people came out. Neal's eyes widened when he recognized their leader – the blond man who had almost caught them that time when Mozzie had called his dad.

"You…."

"Come, Mr. Caffrey," stated the man and opened the door of his car.

With the gun in his back and Peter sitting there helpless, Neal saw no other option but to climb into the car.

"Where are you taking me?"

The leader of his captors smiled at him. "Won't spoil the surprise."

When Neal spotted the syringe, it was already too late.

He barely had the time to hiss in surprise before being injected with the unknown drug. And then his world went black and he knew no more.

o - o - o

"_Agent Burke! Can you hear me?"_

"… what…?"

"Burke, do you understand me?"

Peter blinked.

_Where was he? What was going on?_

Opening his eyes, Peter's whole world was unfocused, muffled – like he was seeing his surroundings through a thick fog. Blinking again, his brain began to recognize the shapes around him. Someone was standing over him, waving their hand over his face. He glanced around – a seat with polyethylene padding, pieces of glass, dented door.… He was sitting in a car that wasn't his. There had been a crash. Peter tried to remember.…

Then it finally clicked.

The man above him was Agent Greeves from the CIA. He had been with his team, had tracked down Neal to his apartment and then arrested him. Then the CIA had shown up and then–

"_Neal!"_

"Burke!" exclaimed Greeves in relief. "Thank God – we were worried about you there. I've already called the ambulance. Don't worry, you're gonna be all right– "

"Neal," interrupted Peter. "Is he okay?" He tried to turn around–

The sudden wave of nausea hit him so hard that Peter almost threw up.

"Burke? Jesus, you're all green. The ambulance will be here in a minute–"

"I think it's just a concussion," murmured Peter, leaning back against his seat and closing his eyes.

"Hey! Stay with me. Don't fall asleep."

Peter looked back at Greeves. "I was just … never mind." Carefully trying to lift himself up, he suddenly became aware of the throbbing pain in his head. He touched it lightly and then quickly pulled his hand away, hissing in pain. Looking down at his fingers, Peter felt slightly sick when he realized they were covered in blood.

"Here." Greeves handed him a piece of gauze.

Peter took a deep breath before pressing it against his head. "Thanks.… How's everyone else? Is Neal okay?"

"If he's not, he certainly looked like he was."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Caffrey is gone," explained Greeves with a grimace. "He took advantage of the confusion of the crash and disappeared."

"What? How did that happen?" Peter tried to get up.

Greeves stopped him. "Whoa, don't move.… I already have someone looking into it. I can assure you that catching Caffrey is one of our priorities."

"Right.…"

Suddenly they heard the sirens.

"Looks like the ambulance finally arrived," said Greeves, straightening himself and turning around. Peter waited until they were approached by a pair of paramedics.

"Sir, can you step out of the car?"

"I can try.…" Peter swung his legs to the door, then had to still as his whole world rocked.

"Let me help you," said one of the paramedics understandingly.

With the woman's support, Peter managed to stand up on his feet. Somehow, they made it to the ambulance. Before the door closed behind them, Peter stared at the street – two crashed vehicles. Broken glass. Chaos.

_And Neal had taken advantage of the situation to escape once again._

Then the ambulance door shut and the view disappeared from Peter's sight. They were going to the hospital.

o - o - o

After Neal's disturbing phone call, they had waited for him the whole night.

At some point, Sally brought Mozzie a cup of tea. Then she sat next to him, gently squeezing his hand. When he noticed that Sally had dozed off as the morning was approaching, Mozzie momentarily broke from his reverie to bring her a blanket and put it over her shoulders. Then he returned to his place, pushing himself to stay awake in case Neal contacted them.

But his cell wasn't ringing.

He kept his watch through the night up to dawn and then past it, so focused on his phone and the door that he didn't even realize when Sally woke up.

"Moz. He's not going to call."

_He knew._

But as long as he kept his watch, as long as he didn't give up–

"Moz. _Paul._"

Sally's voice finally brought Mozzie back to reality. Neal had been caught.

_But he was going to bring him back, and Sally had promised to help him._

Mozzie was determined that he would succeed. But first he needed a plan.

'_Trust the Suit,'_ Neal had said. Who the hell was that?

It was clear that their quest required more information.

Fortunately, that was one area where Mozzie felt completely confident. "I'll have to contact some people."

Sally had started making toast for breakfast, but paused as she turned to Mozzie. "Who do you have in mind?"

They'd been best friends for almost two decades. They'd been on the run together in their hopeless act of defiance against the CIA. They had talked so much during the last few weeks that Mozzie had thought that he knew enough about Neal's life._ But then who was the Suit?_

There were two people at least who could give him some answers.

"The people who are loyal to Neal, June Ellington and Hale."

"They'll be watched," warned Sally.

Mozzie smiled. "Don't worry. Between the two of us, I'm sure we'll find a way."

"I hope you know what you're doing," replied Sally grimly.

'_Yeah, me too.'_

Reaching an internal decision, Mozzie nodded. "Okay. First off, I should–"

"You should have breakfast with me and then get some sleep," interrupted Sally.

Mozzie blinked. "But Neal–"

"You won't help him if you collapse on your feet."

"Don't you know what they say? The first forty-eight hours are crucial–"

"To find a missing person, I know." Sally paused. "But this isn't a case for the Missing Persons Unit. We're not cops; we already know who has Neal – and don't forget that the real target of the CIA is still you."

Mozzie frowned. "So what do you suggest?"

"Get the IDs that Neal had made for you," advised Sally.

Mozzie shook his head. "No, that – we have to assume that sooner or later, the CIA will get Neal to talk."

"He won't give you up."

"_Unless_ he has no choice. Anything that he knows, the CIA might know too." Suddenly his eyes stilled at Sally's face. "Which means … oh no."

"What?"

"Neal knows about you. Sooner or later, the CIA will too."

"He doesn't know my real name or where this place is," stated Sally firmly.

"He knows about the club. He knows some of your friends. From that point.…" Mozzie hesitated. "Now that they have Neal, your face is out there too.… I have to go."

"What?" The hurt and shock in Sally's voice was almost palpable. "Look, this place is safe. Not even my friends know–"

"Doesn't matter. The CIA will find it." Recalling the afternoon before, Mozzie went to the couch to pick up his jacket and then started collecting the rest of his things. "Besides, that's not what this is about."

"So after everything, after we – after you dragged me into this, you're just going to _leave_?"

"I'm not _leaving_ you, I– "Mozzie sighed. "Look. I've already ruined Neal's life. I can't do the same to you."

"Don't be an idiot," said Sally sharply. "Neal knew the risks but chose to help you, and I'm doing the same. You can't stop me."

"Sally – please. You should walk away. If Neal–"

"Just because they caught him, doesn't mean that Neal will drop my name," interrupted Sally.

Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "_Now_ you trust him?"

"I know he won't betray you," answered Sally. "He knows that if he tells them my name, it will lead them to you. So he won't."

"I know that Neal will do his best to buy us some time," said Mozzie. "But eventually–"

"Neal doesn't know about Project Lethe," said Sally. "He doesn't know that we've cracked the CIA financial records, and if we're lucky, neither does the CIA. That works in our favor."

Mozzie didn't reply.

He thought about how Neal had been framed because he stood in the CIA's way. As the Vulture, Sally was just as vulnerable to their machinations if her identity was exposed.

Staring at Sally, Mozzie couldn't squash his feeling of unease.

He shouldn't have let her in. He didn't know why he had let Neal involve her in this. They would have found another way.

"Talk to your friends," he said at last. "Make sure that they won't reveal your name, then burn the contacts and break all ties. That should slow them down a bit and buy you some time while I'm tracking down the Suit and Neal.… Thank you for everything that you've done for me."

Silence.

"You're breaking up with me." stated Sally incredulously.

"I don't want you involved."

"Is this some sort of misplaced chivalry or have you simply decided that you don't need me anymore? And I don't know which of these options is more _stupid_."

"Sally– this was a mistake."

She glowered at him. "I want to help Neal and to stop those egomaniacs from poking around people's heads. You can't stop me. Even if you wanted to, you need my skills. "

The worst thing was that she was right.

Wordlessly, Mozzie put his bag down and tossed the jacket at the rack in the foyer before returning to the kitchen. He accepted the plate with toast and a glass of juice from Sally. They ate the breakfast in an unpleasant silence that carried on even as they returned to the computer and continued searching through the CIA database.

But that day, the financial records seemed to be hiding their secrets. As their frustration and tiredness built up, the tension between Mozzie and Sally just grew worse. Despite a long and tenuous search that was interrupted only by the takeaway lunch from a nearby restaurant and the occasional break, their efforts turned out to be in vain.

It was almost midnight when they finally admitted defeat.

"I have to go to work tomorrow," said Sally as she turned off the secondary computer systems. "I already took an unexpected vacation for one week and an unpaid leave for another. If I don't show up tomorrow, I'll get fired."

With his apartment swarming with CIA and FBI, Mozzie spent the night on Sally's couch. Despite his exhaustion, his eyes wouldn't close as he kept staring at the ceiling, trying to make plans for the future.

o - o - o

The next morning, their argument seemed forgotten. They smiled at each other in unspoken apology as they ate Sally's gluten-free pancakes; they chuckled when they ran into each other in the bathroom and Sally gave Mozzie a quick peck on his cheek before she rushed off to work. With the whole day ahead, Mozzie then went to pick up the IDs that Neal had made for them and ran a couple of other errands. After returning home, he started going over the CIA records again, but he didn't dare to explore on his own too much without Sally's skills. The rest of the time, he was considering ways to contact June and Hale.

Mozzie was a bit surprised when he found out about Sally's official profession. Nevertheless, her job as a bicycle courier meant that she often came home late, rewarding him with a tired but thankful smile for making dinner and a cup of her favorite black tea. She would take a shower, sometimes allowing Mozzie to join her and help her if her muscles were particularly sore. Then, when they were both fed and refreshed, Sally would turn on her whole monstrous system of computers and the two of them continued the task of trying to track Neal and find a hole in the CIA security.

That went on for five days.

On the morning of the sixth day, they had breakfast and then Sally left as usual, giving Mozzie a quick goodbye kiss. Mozzie kept on his smile until the door closed behind her. Then he went to the box with Sally's summer clothes and pulled out the stack of newly forged passports and other IDs. Opening one of the passports, Mozzie stared at the ID that he would swear to be completely legitimate, had he not known that he had forged it himself only yesterday afternoon.

_Neal had taught him well._

Putting the passports at the bottom of his bag, Mozzie added his clothes, his toiletries, his flash drive and a stack of notes from his and Sally's research. He almost made it to the door when he hesitated.

Then he swiftly turned around and left without looking back.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Reviews are very much appreciated._


	3. Part II

**PART II**

The surface under his cheek felt oddly cold. His eyelids were impossibly heavy. Slowly regaining consciousness, Neal tried to open his eyes.

_What__…__? Where__…__?_

"Mr. Caffrey. Welcome back to the world of the living."

Neal quickly shut his eyes as he was hit by the harshness of artificial light. He took a short break before he tried again, lifting up his head and pulling himself up in the process. He finally managed to get a view of the room.

Everything felt _off_, like the whole world was somehow submerged underwater. He felt dizzy, his surroundings coming off as one big blur. The realization hit him as he scratched the side of his thigh and found a needle mark.

"You drugged me!"

"It was necessary for transporting you here. The effects should wear off in a few hours."

The shapes in front of Neal started coming into focus. He was sitting on a cot of some sort, with his feet dangling down. There was a man in a chair opposite him – the one who had spoken. Neal tried to shrink back when he was hit by a wave of nausea. His companion had apparently foreseen the issue and handed him a bowl.

"Wow, you're really good at this post-kidnapping thing," stated Neal dryly a few moments later after he cleaned his face with a silently provided damp cloth.

"We do try," replied his companion with the same sarcastic humor.

"You have a lot of experience, then?" asked Neal lightly.

The CIA agent chuckled. "Now come on, Neal, that would be telling."

_Blond, blue eyes.… _With his senses coming back to him, Neal finally recognized him as the leader of the team that had almost tracked them down once. "We've met before.… You actually found us once. Your team is good at tracking people."

"Better than the US Marshals, though not as good as Peter Burke, it would seem. You led us on quite a chase, Mr. Caffrey," replied the agent in a friendly tone.

"I do try."

The agent laughed. "See? I love your sense of humor. There's no reason why we can't talk like civilized people."

Neal blinked, then blinked again. When did the cloth and the bowl disappear?

"Neal?"

"So, you kidnapped me. Now what?" How much time has passed? He was off his game.

The agent nodded. "You don't have to be here for long. Tell us where Paul Handerson is, and you can go back to your life, forget that this all ever happened."

"Who's Paul Handerson?"

"You're seriously going to go with that? Come on, Neal. Where is your friend? Where is Mozzie?"

"Go to hell."

The CIA agent cleared his throat and smiled. "I see you're not exactly yourself yet. We'll talk again in a while." He stood and picked up the chair, closing the door behind himself as he left.

_He wanted to sleep ... just.… _

No! Neal forced himself to keep his eyes open. This was his chance to find a way out.

He looked around the room. It was small – just his bed, a curtain covering a break in the wall and the door. Neal carefully stood up and went to check the curtain and discovered a small bathroom; just the toilet and a sink. And then there was nothing else – no items, no additional furniture, nothing. Also, everything except the floor was strangely white. Whiiiite. Hmm.

What did … _oh. Escape._

First things first, Neal turned on the faucet in the bathroom and was pleased to find it functioning. He repeatedly washed his face and hair with cold water and then drank some too, until he regained some semblance of a clear mind. Finally, maybe fifteen minutes later, he was ready to explore his cell.

The door had a round knob and a lock that seemed to open to a card or a key. Belatedly, Neal remembered to check his clothes. He was still wearing the undershirt from before (dirty and slightly torn, without any hidden tools), but someone had tended to his scrapes – they had even put a bandage on his ankle. The jacket he had bought for a few bucks was gone. Glancing at his trousers, Neal smiled when he saw that they had let him keep the old pair. Not that he was particularly fond of them (especially now, after they'd been through a rooftop fall and a crazy chase), but as most pieces that had originally come from Byron, they had a lock pick sewn inside them. However, his joy faded when he checked the hiding place and realized that his captors had carefully cut the stitches and removed his escape tools, probably when he had been out unconscious.

Damn.

There had to be a way out, thought Neal determinedly. However, after thirty futile minutes with the room occasionally swirling around him, he had to admit that he wasn't going to find it; not until the drug effects faded a little. At least he wasn't singing again.…

He_ would_ find a way out. It was only a matter of time.

Since his ankle had started hurting again, Neal sat back on the bed. Soon, he lay down and fell asleep.

o - o - o

Lying in the hospital bed, Peter decided that the worst thing about having a concussion was how it messed up his perception and put him into a weird dull state where everything seemed to be blocked by an invisible fog.

On some level, he was agitated, almost bursting with energy as he wanted to get out of the hospital bed and investigate the car crash and Neal's escape. Another, not entirely conscious part of him just wanted to close his eyes, sleep and wait it out until his world finally stilled and the fog dissipated.

His team was already on the crash. According to Jones, they were now pulling records from traffic cams in an effort to determine the identity of the other driver and to find out where Neal might have headed. So far, they had found out that the other car had been stolen, which might explain why the driver had escaped from the scene so fast. Unfortunately neither the place of the accident nor its immediate vicinity was covered by any CCTV; nevertheless, Peter didn't doubt that Jones and Diana would be able to find a lead, either from the more remote cams or from talking to possible witnesses. However, that didn't make being stuck in a hospital any less annoying.

Frustrated, Peter reached for his phone to call Diana for an update when suddenly, the door to his room opened and Elizabeth entered.

El's face was tightened with tension – tension that immediately turned to relief as she spotted him and swiftly walked to his bed. "Peter! How are you?"

Peter smiled and reached for her hand. "Hey, hon. I'm okay."

El pulled close a nearby chair and sat down. "The doctor told me that they were only keeping you here for observation.… How do you feel?"

"Like I've been stomped over by a herd of elephants.… My head's a bit hazy, I have some lovely new stitches and a couple bruises, but otherwise I'm good. How did you know I was here?"

"Diana called me. Peter, what happened?"

Peter grimaced. "Well, we tracked down Neal as I had predicted. Then other people arrived on the scene, everything became classified – and suddenly there was a car crash."

Elizabeth blinked. "What? Honey, you're not making any sense."

It took a while before Peter retold the events of his day. When he finished, El just shook her head and chuckled. "You know, I always worry about you being hurt on a case.… It never occurred to me that you could be in just a regular random accident."

Peter opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. He hesitated. "I don't think…"

Elizabeth frowned when Peter stopped. "What? What did you want to say?"

"I … nothing. Don't worry about it."

Elizabeth gave him a dubious look.

Peter cleared his throat and then changed the subject.

He and El talked for another twenty minutes before a doctor came in and checked on him. After some discussion, the doctor agreed to release Peter, provided that someone would keep an eye on him for the rest of the day.

As El drove them home, Peter thought back to the crash, silently wondering whether his team's investigation would bring any results.

Everything that day had happened so fast. He had tracked Neal down to his apartment and come there with a warrant to arrest him, only to be told an unbelievable story and then watch in shock as Neal jumped out through a closed window. Then the arrival of the CIA agents, Caffrey's recapture, arguing with the CIA and finally the crash.…

Neal had disappeared again. For an accident, the crash that had been awfully convenient.

Peter had learned long ago to trust his gut. Now his instincts were screaming at him that something wasn't adding up. However, he knew he was missing pieces of the puzzle. He wanted to go back to the office, but the doctor had made him swear not to overexert himself and whenever he started questioning the necessity of this advice, his concussion would let itself be known by a new wave of nausea. Besides – looking at El, Peter thought of the fear that he had spotted on her face earlier, and knew that this evening belonged to her. She needed him to be home, needed to know that he was safe.

Maybe Jones and Diana would find some lead. For the moment, Peter closed his eyes and let himself rest while Elizabeth drove the Taurus back to Brooklyn.

o - o - o

Mozzie remembered how, at the beginning of this whole thing when they had been staying at Neal's storage unit, he had considered their living arrangements to be the proof of how bad their situation had gotten. Now, several weeks afterwards, he figured out that Neal's storage unit had actually been a rather luxurious accommodation.

He stared at his new place with a mix of dismay and determination.

Having little experience in the area, Mozzie had been surprised how easy it had been to purchase his own storage room at auction. He paid for the place with some of the "emergency" cash that Neal had left for him a couple weeks ago; then scribbled down a barely legible fake name on the paper that provided him with ownership – and that was it. By the time the ink on the lease had barely dried he was already moving his things in and setting himself up for a long stay.

The room was cold and half-filled with furniture. The carpet rolled in the corner stank and seemed to be rotting. The sole window was half covered with paint-stained newspaper and the metal bed looked like something stolen from a nineteenth century mental institution.

At least there were no menacing bars on the window. "_Or_, as they say, _'a pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.'_"

He had water, electricity and wi-fi. The storage unit was quite large and the purchase untraceable to his real identity. Mozzie could already see how it would become the perfect base for "Operation Rescue Neal".

_He wanted to sleep in a nice comfortable hotel. He wanted to go back to his job as a researcher. He wanted to go home and watch the first three sequels of Tiles of Fire. Instead, he was stuck in a storage room that was probably infested by rat poop and an unknown number of germs and bacteria._

"Oh damn it. Neal, how did you ever make this work?"

Not unexpectedly, his absent friend didn't give Mozzie any answers.

_Well, first things first. _

Most of the furniture would have to go. Then lots of sweeping, lots of cleaning and about five liters of non-allergenic detergent. Cleaning the window before putting up some blinds to replace the newspapers, buying a decent heating unit, refurbishing the room and finally installing cameras for the outside. Simple as a piece of gluten-free cake.

"Achoo!"

Actually the cameras would have to be put up first. Then a visit to a hardware store to buy a dust mask and to a pharmacy for his allergy meds before he tried to make the storage room habitable. After he set himself up, he would then figure out a way to contact June and Hale without revealing himself to the CIA. His decision made, Mozzie locked the door to his storage room and went to look for his supplies.

_If only he had agreed to Neal's plan for faking his death and giving him a new identity.…_

Mozzie pushed away his doubts. He could handle this. Neal needed him to.

If Mozzie's efforts failed, hopefully "the Suit" would know what to do next. He was probably one of Neal's old associates, skilled in the cloak and dagger games that were still novel to Moz. Yet, think all he might, Mozzie couldn't figure out who of the people from Neal's old life he would trust so much. From what Neal had told him, ever since the brief but disastrous partnership with Matthew Keller, his friend had mostly worked alone. Could it be Hale, the gentleman fence who had taken Neal under his wing when he had first arrived in New York? It didn't feel right, but Mozzie couldn't think of another man that would be so important in Neal's past.…

_Unless_ "the Suit" was a she? Alexandra Hunter might theoretically fit the profile … although Moz didn't think that Neal trusted her that much. But then before the CIA interfered, he and Neal had barely been in contact for several years, so his perceptions might be inaccurate.

It was the perfect irony that the event that had forced him out of his home had also led to the strengthening of his and Neal's friendship. Mozzie would almost be thankful, except for the fact that right now, the CIA was probably torturing Neal for information on him.

He had to find the Suit and rescue Neal before it was too late.

o - o - o

"Excuse me? Madam! Madam, are you Mrs. June Ellington?"

The fake hair and mustache itched. While Mozzie had enough experience lecturing at conferences, wearing a suit still made him feel vaguely uncomfortable and long for the familiarity of his old lab coat. To add to his misery, he had a small cage with a rat inside on the ground in front of him as a part of his cover. Sitting in the waiting room in front of the groomer and vet's office, Mozzie kept nervously glancing around. Surrounded by several people with their pets, he felt like a sitting duck, just waiting for the CIA to show up and snatch him away.

But comfortable or not, he was on a mission. The moment he spotted his contact, he hurried to intercept her. "I need to talk to you."

June Ellington frowned at him. "Do I know you?"

Mozzie faltered. "I'm … err … I'm from – the charity! Yes! I need to talk to you immediately."

"Is that so?" June's pug growled at Mozzie before barking once.

Suddenly, the vet's door opened and a young woman walked out. "Mr. Newton?" she asked to the waiting room. Nobody moved. "Sir…? Mr. Newton?"

Right! That was his alias. "Just a second!"

The vet frowned at him. "Sir, this is a veterinary practice, not a chat room.… Is that your rat?"

"What?" Mozzie turned around to where the woman was looking. The rat cage had somehow turned on its side, with the rat running around in circles. "Oh. Of course. Pardon me." He picked up the cage before turning to where June had been standing … except she was already walking through the groomer's door. "Hey–!"

The door behind June closed before Mozzie could stop it.

_He had found her and then he lost her. Neal needed him and he blew it. He was a failure._

"Mr. Newton, are you coming in or not?"

The veterinarian's voice broke Mozzie from his musings. "I–" He was about to excuse himself and deciding to just wait here until June came out again, when he looked around and realized that the people around were staring at him.

He had already caused something of a small spectacle here. If he refused to go in and waited for June…. He couldn't call more attention to himself. But if he were to help Neal, he _needed_ to talk to June….

"Of course," replied Mozzie dejectedly and picked up the damn cage.

He would find another opportunity to contact Mrs. Ellington. Mozzie refused to acknowledge any other option.

Even as he entered the vet's office, he was already considering a new plan.

o - o - o

"So, _Mr. Newton_. I don't think we've been introduced. I couldn't help but wonder what was so urgent that you needed to speak with me?"

Turning around, Mozzie's tense face transformed into a relieved smile. "Mrs. Ellington!"

By the time he left the vet's office, he had managed to calm down and collect his thoughts. Maybe June would still be there at the groomer with Bugsy. Maybe, she would wait for him. If not, there had to be other ways to contact her without attracting attention. Still, Mozzie couldn't deny his relief when he found her waiting for him just around the corner from the groomer's office.

"Hmm. May I look at your pet?"

"What?" Mozzie faltered before it hit him. "Oh, you mean the rat! That's not really my pet. I mean…."

June tilted her head questioningly.

And now he was embarrassing himself. "His name is Paracelsus. I just bought it today because…." Mozzie faltered. Could he tell her he bought the rat as an excuse to meet her here? The veterinarian had already given him a lecture about proper animal care; he really didn't need another one now. "Well, I bought it." He cleared his throat, sneaked a glance around and lowered his voice. "Anyway, I needed to talk to you about our_ mutual friend_."

"Excuse me?"

"When you met him, you were … oh, forget it." Mozzie sighed. "Neal is in trouble. I need your help."

Mrs. Ellington stiffened. "What do you mean? How do you know him?"

"We've been friends since high school," replied Mozzie quietly. "I called him a few weeks ago–"

June's eyes widened. "Wait – short, spectacled – you're _Paul_." Mozzie tensed. "I'm sorry, I should have known," said June, shaking her head before smiling at him.

"Mrs. Ellington–"

"Call me June, dear."

Mozzie cleared his throat. "Okay, June–"

"There's a small café on the next floor." She checked her watch. "Bugsy will be with the groomer for a while. In the meantime, we have plenty of time to catch up over a delicious espresso. Although I suspect your companion here might not be so welcome at the café."

"My companion?"

"May I?" Gently, she took the cage from Mozzie's hand before walking back to the vet's office and knocking at the door. A moment later, the door opened and the veterinary assistant walked out. June smiled at her. "Excuse me dear, could I leave my friend's rat here for an hour or so? You'd be doing me a real favor."

The assistant smiled at her. "Mrs. Ellington? Of course."

"You're a lifesaver. Thank you so much!"

Mozzie just stared.

Coming back to him, June cleared her throat and smiled at him in a way that reminded Mozzie of a shark. "Now, Paul, let us find a place where we can talk.…"

o - o - o

Back at his storage unit several hours later, Mozzie was thinking of the past afternoon and contemplating what he had learned from June Ellington.

The moment she realized who he was, she had taken over completely. She had led the way to the café, then watched him sharply as he ordered his mint tea while she settled on an espresso. For the next ten minutes, she bombarded him with seemingly random questions about Neal and their friendship, and then when Mozzie finally gave up his meager attempts to keep up with her and felt ready to dissolve into a puddle at the floor, she suddenly stopped, changing her expression to warm and caring and apologized for her suspicion.

When she finally heard the whole quietly retold story, her lips tightened in anger. _'I've been out of the game for almost thirty years.… I'll see what I can do.'_

She could have eaten him alive, realized Mozzie in retrospect, and he shuddered when he imagined how the meeting would have gone if he weren't on Neal's side. He was barely managing with June as an ally; he definitely didn't want her as his enemy.

During the hour they had spent in the café, she had taught him more about cons, ruses and disguises than Neal had in their four weeks together on the run. If Mozzie thought that Neal was sometimes harsh in his criticism, June was even more blunt and direct. If he was going to take on the CIA, then his stuttering, stumbling-around attempts would just not do. '_Neal is like a son to me, Paul. You can't let his sacrifice be in vain.'_ Wordlessly, Paul nodded. He knew all about families that weren't tied by blood.

According to June Ellington, if Mozzie was hell-bent on rescuing Neal, then he better do it right.

For all the advice June had given him, she hadn't been able to shed much light on the identity of "the Suit". _'Neal never told me,'_ she had said, sounding troubled. Together, they went over the names that Mozzie had been considering over the last few days.

Not Neal's lawyer, apparently – they hadn't been in contact since Neal's trial. When Mozzie reluctantly mentioned the security firm Neal had worked for, June just snorted and shook her head. Neal's boss had never been particularly trusting of him, and while Neal had made a few friends there, none of these relationships went beyond a casual acquaintance. Maybe a CEO or someone from one of those corporate companies that Neal had consulted for? Again, June just shook her head with a small frown. If Neal had made any friends there, she didn't know of them.

Well, not unless he counted another interesting bit of information.…

"_I wonder.…" June murmured before falling silent. "You said Neal had mentioned 'Peter' on the phone call to you?"_

_How was that relevant? "What do you know?" asked Mozzie curiously._

_June hesitated. "The only person that comes to mind is Peter Burke, the FBI agent that caught Neal before."_

"_The FBI was tracking us too," shared Mozzie, the wheels in his head already turning. "Neal said that he had been framed to set them on our trail. Are you saying that this 'Peter' character could be involved somehow?"_

"_Peter Burke, involved in this kind of conspiracy?" June paused, obviously troubled. "I don't think.… I don't know."_

"_Who is he?"_

"_Has Neal never told you about his relationship with Peter?"_

"_Relationship? … Oh. OH! You mean, the two of them actually.…" _

"_Oh, no, you misunderstood me," interrupted June with a small chuckle. Then she turned serious. "Peter Burke was Neal's case agent. From the very beginning, Neal had always been somewhat fascinated by him. Supposedly, the feeling was mutual. Neal used to send him messages – once, he even had a pizza delivered to the van in which Peter was sitting with his team.…"_

"_I've heard that story," said Mozzie as a sudden memory flashed through his head._

_June sighed. "Indeed.… Eventually, Peter used these clues against Neal, leading to his capture. Yet despite their history, the two have remained on friendly terms with each other."_

"_Wait, are you suggesting that the man Neal told me to trust …"_

"… _could be Peter Burke, the man who sent him to prison?" June paused. "It does seem strange, doesn't it?"_

"_What is his role in all this, then?" pressed Mozzie._

_June shook her head. "I'm sorry, Paul. I truly don't know."_

_Meaning, they were back to square one._

_Or maybe not. "June … do you know how I could find Hale?"_

o - o - o

Frustrated, Peter tossed away the file that contained the information on the crash that had occurred nearly a week ago.

Except for his concussion, his own injuries had been merely superficial, and he hadn't wasted any time in getting back to his office. Yet even now in the middle of the investigation, he couldn't find anything that would shed some light on what exactly had happened. Nothing on the CCTV footage from the surrounding streets, nothing suspicious about the owner of the stolen car; in fact, everything was pointing to the fact that the car accident had been just that – an accident. Yet Peter's gut was screaming at him that something wasn't adding up, that there was more to the story than what he knew.

_Could Neal have organized the accident?_

No, that didn't make sense. A car crash had the potential to physically hurt or kill, and Peter couldn't see Neal taking that risk without a damn good reason. Besides, when would Neal have had the chance to set this up? No, Neal might have taken advantage of the crash, but he couldn't have been the mastermind behind it.

What were the other options?

_Was it possible that the crash had been organized by the CIA?_

Peter barely had time to form the thought before he scoffed at its ludicrousness. Why would the CIA stage a crash that allowed Neal to escape when they had been so determined to catch him? Unless, Neal was somehow connected to them.… Reminding himself that this was the real world and not a spy novel, Peter promptly discarded that thought.

Which left.…

_The reason why the CIA had gotten involved in the first place. _Supposedly, Neal had been involved with some people that were endangering national security. Peter had initially discarded the CIA's claims, but what if they were true? Or, was it possible that Neal's partnership with "Haversham" had come to an abrupt, violent end?

It made sense. Which meant that Peter didn't have enough information. He needed to talk to the CIA agents again.

o - o - o

Neal had to give the CIA one thing – they knew what they were doing when it came to security.

As he had suspected, his room was a cell in all but name. The moment he woke up again, the drugs finally out of his system, he started examining his surroundings, searching for a weak spot that he might have missed before. In the end though, it became clear that the only way out was through the door, which had an electronic lock and opened from the outside. That didn't mean that Neal didn't have a couple ideas, but at this point they were only half-formed observations, certainly not anything that gave him even moderate chances at a successful escape.

However, before he had the time to elaborate on these thoughts, the door to his room opened and two CIA agents walked in. Neal recognized the first as Agent Greeves; the second was someone he hadn't met before, a sort of intelligent thug that reminded Neal of Ryan Wilkes.

"Neal Caffrey. I see you've had the time to check your accommodation," said Greeves in place of a greeting.

Neal shrugged. "I've stayed at worse places."

"Perhaps." Greeves paused. "You know why you're here."

"No, actually, I don't."

Wilkes–lookalike gave him a glare. "Cut the crap, Caffrey. Where is Paul Handerson?"

"Who?"

"Professor Paul Handerson, also known as Mozzie Haversham, Jack Specter and Bill Ryan. You made him these aliases," stated Greeves flatly.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Wordlessly, Greeves pulled out a stack of photos. Staring at one picture of himself and Mozzie after another, Neal knew the gig was up.

"Who is he to you anyway?" asked Wilkes-lookalike with a frown.

Silence.

"He stayed with you at the same apartment. When did you last speak to him?"

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," said 'Wilkes'.

"Really? I think you've watched too many movies," replied Neal with a snort.

He barely saw the agent move when his stomach exploded in pain and he doubled over. Blinking away tears, Neal tried to catch his breath. He started lifting his head when a second punch caught him in the jaw and he flew back, his head hitting the wall.

"That's enough for now, Adams."

_Adams. That must be the Wilkes-lookalike guy._

Half-crumbled on the floor, Neal pulled himself up, all the time watching the agents. "'Guess that was supposed to be the hard way."

Greeves wasn't amused. "Where is Paul Handerson?"

Neal swallowed. "Go to hell."

He expected an attack this time and tried to defend himself. Five seconds later, he was shrieking in pain, then cradling his wrist to his chest when Adams finally let go.

"It doesn't have to be like this," said Greeves. "Give us Handerson and we will make it worth your while."

"What?"

"Now, you're paying attention. We have a proposition for you.…"

o - o - o

Neal Caffrey was a white collar criminal, a thief and con man with no history of violence. The CIA acknowledged that and acted accordingly.

They explained that they only needed to talk to Mozzie, but if Neal agreed to help them, the benefits would be enough to soothe Neal's conscience. They could make his FBI problem go away, explained Greeves, or even give him a brand new identity that nobody would be able to relate to the "old" Neal Caffrey. The CIA would take him under their wing, guaranteeing a de facto immunity for both his past and future pursuits as long as they didn't interfere with national security. To show their appreciation, they would also reward him substantially for his help. While Greeves explained the advantages of cooperation, Adams just stood there, a silent but very strong reminder of how things could get ugly unless Neal gave them what they wanted.

"Two million," interrupted Neal suddenly.

Greeves stopped his monologue and blinked. "You agree to my proposal."

"Not so fast." Neal paused. "I have my own demands. I won't tell you a thing until we have an agreement."

They negotiated and haggled for almost half an hour. After the CIA had sworn not to harm Moz, Neal had finally given them an account number of his choice. He then waited until the CIA paid the agreed "deposit" before sharing the information.

"If we got separated, the back-up plan was that we would meet in Houston. From there, a boat was arranged to take us to Puerto Rico."

"How and when?"

Neal paused. "I want your word that you'll clear my name with the FBI."

"Stop procrastinating, Caffrey," snapped Adams.

"It will be done," promised agent Greeves with a serious nod.

"There's a man at the port called Jesse who owns a cargo ship. Sometimes he smuggles people out of the country for the right price. Mozzie will probably be contacting him over the next few days."

Greeves gave him a pleased smile. "Good. Where can we find this 'Jesse'? What does he look like?"

"I think his boat has some sort of a Greek name ... under a Liberian flag, if I remember correctly?" answered Neal.

"'Greek name with Liberian flag'? Come on, Caffrey, you can give us more than that. After all, you've already made a lot of money from this."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," replied Neal with a glare.

"If it makes you feel better, we could always resort to less civilized methods," said Greeves. Adams took a step forward

Neal gulped. "If you give me a pen, I can try to draw a map of the marina.…"

o - o - o

'_Trust the Suit.'_

Standing at a street in the suburbs of Brooklyn, Mozzie felt a shiver run over his spine. Swallowing deeply, he quickly ran over the list of advice that June had given him before discarding most of it. Best case scenario, he was going to meet this "Burke Suit" – and despite what Hale had said, Mozzie still wasn't sure that the "Suit" wasn't working with the CIA. Worst case scenario, he would end up at a police station or in a hospital – and that was supposing the Suit didn't shoot him on sight.

Then again, "_common sense is merely a collection of prejudices acquired by age eighteen"_.

With confidence he didn't feel, Mozzie approached the Burkes' house and started checking the usual locations. The doormat, the flower pots.… With a grim smile, Mozzie pulled out a small key. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside while quickly opening a bag of dog treats and tossing it a few feet away. If the Burkes' dog was a nasty vicious thing or even a particularly enthusiastic guard, this had the potential to turn very ugly really fast.

As expected, Mozzie barely had the time to close the door when he was greeted by a short bark of a Labrador. Barely breathing, he pressed his back against the door. The dog was sitting in front of him, his head slightly tilted.

"Nice doggy," said Mozzie nervously. "Very nice doggy.…"

"Woof!"

"We're friends, right?" Mozzie swallowed. "See? I brought you treats. _Oh, no, you–"_

He barely had time for a horrified shriek as the dog's paws hit his chest. However, when the attack wasn't followed by the sharp pain of the dog's teeth, Mozzie slowly opened his eyes. The dog licked his face, then barked happily before losing interest in Moz and going to collect the treats on the floor.

Waiting a few moments, Mozzie was finally beginning to believe that the dog had lost his interest in him. Leaning away from the door, he was about to walk in when he was stopped by a sharp female voice upstairs.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?"

Oh no. "Mrs. Suit?"

"Satchmo, yuck!" With a glare, Elizabeth Burke started descending the stairs. "What did you give him? If you tried to drug my dog–"

"I didn't! It's just dog treats, from the pet shop," Mozzie defended himself. "Mrs. Burke–"

"How did you get in? I warn you, my husband–"

"I'm sorry! You had the key under your flower pot, so.…" Mozzie paused. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Burke. I should have just rung the bell."

Elizabeth's expression softened the tiniest degree. "Look, I think you better explain yourself before I call 911."

Mozzie sighed. "It's kind of a long story.…"

"Then it's a good thing that I happen to have a lot of time."

o - o - o

He was playing for time, thought Neal as they brought him back to his cell. His drawing was somewhat vague, yet convincing enough that the CIA took it at face value. With some luck, it would take them a few days until they realized that his information was completely fabricated. Who knew, there might even be living a guy named Jesse living somewhere in the Houston port.…

With a barely hidden grin, Neal thought Mozzie would appreciate the story of how he had conned the CIA into donating $200,000 for a charity for Detroit's unprivileged children. Of course, that would only happen if he managed to get out of the CIA facility.

With his captors distracted, he reckoned he had maybe a day or two to execute an escape.

o - o - o


	4. Part III

**PART III**

When Neal woke up, everything felt heavy. Trying to move, he gasped in pain. His stomach, his arms, his legs, every inch of his body _hurt_. The memories hit him like a truck, and for a moment Neal wished he was still out of it, rather than facing reality.

"They thought about tying you to the bed. I thought that was an overreaction. I had expected you to try this sooner or later."

Glancing at the person on a chair next to him, Neal felt a strange déjà vu when he realized it was the blond agent who had welcomed him to the CIA facility. "What do you mean? … Who are you?"

"I spent the last month studying everything there was on "Neal Caffrey" and Paul Handerson. I have to say, I would have been disappointed if you _hadn't_ tried to escape."

"I wouldn't want to let you down, then," snapped Neal.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," said the agent softly. "As for who I am, you can call me Davis for now."

"Wow, telling me your name? I guess I should be honored." Neal tried to keep his hands from shaking.

Davis sighed. "Neal, believe it or not, I'm not your enemy here."

"You tasered me," said Neal stiffly.

"And by doing that, I saved you from a worse injury," said the agent reasonably.

Looking away, Neal's mind recalled the past two days.…

_Under a mixture of threats and bribery, Neal had "told" the CIA where to find Moz. He then pretended to cooperate when they asked him questions about their time on the run. The CIA already knew some, so he had to be extremely careful when bending the truth, choosing what to reveal and which information to keep to himself. Luckily, Neal had plenty of experience from his scuffles with law enforcement, his trial and his verbal sparring with Peter Burke. However, while neither of his interrogators possessed Peter's deep intelligence, they were still capable enough to keep Neal on his toes, struggling to appear just the right amount of reluctantly cooperative while avoiding the possibility of more violence. Despite his best efforts, he had ended up revealing several pieces of information that – while minor – could still end up being useful to his captors._

_Neal's gamble had paid off a short time later._

_The moment the questioning ended, they had given him some food. Then, obviously pleased with his seeming compliance, the CIA had allowed him to leave his cell, bringing him to a lounge with several sofas, a TV, a small bookshelf and a view of the garden. They brought him lunch a few hours later, and when he asked, someone from the staff even got him a sketch pad and some pencils, so he spent his day in the lounge, reading, drawing, watching TV and simply being bored. _

_However, Neal had no illusions about his situation. While his focus seemed to be on a book, the TV or his sketch, his mind was furiously working. He was still the CIA's prisoner – they put a hood over his head on the way from his room, locked him in the lounge and searched him as he was leaving – and although they had lost some of their interest in him, he knew he was probably being watched. In an ideal situation, he would have waited a few days or weeks until the CIA let their guard down and gathered information in the meantime; however, in this case, he simply didn't have that luxury of time._

_The second day they brought him to the lounge, Neal knew he had to act._

_He had already determined yesterday that the windows to the garden were locked and the glass wouldn't be broken without some serious tools, which would take time and definitely attract attention. Since he didn't have any pins to pick the locks, the only way out led through the electronic door which required a key card. _

_His moment came an hour after he had finished his lunch. When the door opened to a man who came to pick up his tray, Neal quickly rose from his seat. "Here you go," he said with a smile, bringing the tray to him. However, as he was giving the tray to the man, he let go too soon and the tray slipped, a plastic bowl and a fork falling to the ground._

"_Watch it!"_

"_Oh, I'm so sorry," Neal apologized. "Let me help–"_

"_Hey! I can handle this," snapped the man, watching Neal with a sharp and distrustful look._

"_Okay, no problem," said Neal, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. Still wary, the man picked up the fallen dishes and then left, the door automatically closing behind him as he stepped outside. Neal waited a minute before rushing to the door, opening it and taking off the label that he had stripped away from the back of his new sketchbook. Closing the door, he stepped into a corridor, wondering how much time he had before someone checked the camera in the lounge and noticed his absence._

_Though he had never seen the area, he tried to recall what he remembered from being led through here earlier. He walked quickly, painfully aware that his casual clothing likely made him stand out in his surrounding. Two times, he had to hastily duck behind a corner when he spotted an agent nearby, and silently hated the fact that he was still completely clueless about the general layout of the CIA base. _

_Finally, he lucked out when he found a changing room. _

_He put on a set of clothes that the cleaning staff wore there; the trousers were a bit too short and he still had his own shoes, but it was the best he could assemble on short notice. Wishing he had a way to cover his face or a card to attach to his jacket, he left the room again. With some luck, he would run into someone, steal his card, then log into one of the computers and find a way out.…_

_A minute later, the shriek of an alarm broke the silence of the corridors._

_Then several of the doors opened and the agents ran out. Acting as surprised as anyone, Neal tried to take advantage of the confusion. For a few moments, his plan worked, until.…_

"_There! Caffrey!"_

_When he realized his cover was blown, he tried to run._

_Then someone stepped into his path. Neal barely dodged the punch to his face when a sharp kick hit his leg. He stumbled back and tried to protect himself, but his assailant was unstoppable. One painful blow after another, he kept hitting – Neal's arm. His stomach. His knee. His side. His shoulder. His stomach again._

"_Enough!"_

_The barrage stopped. Curled on the floor, Neal tried to rise to his knees._

_Then he saw a man raise a taser, and he felt a short wave of horrible pain before falling down as his consciousness mercifully slipped away.…_

Back in the present, Neal stared at the CIA agent. "If you expect me to be grateful for tasering me.…"

"Of course not." The agent – 'Davis' – shook his head. "I admire your resourcefulness. Really, I do. But the sooner you realize you don't have a choice here, the easier it will be for you." He stood up. "A doctor checked you over while you were out. You have some heavy bruising and he will want to check you again to make sure there aren't any internal injuries before he proclaims you ready for the next level of interrogation.… Think about it, Neal."

'_There's nothing to think about,'_ Neal wanted to say, but didn't. He glanced around the infirmary and watched as Davis exchanged place with Adams and another agent.

He didn't know what the CIA had in the works to break him, but he knew it wouldn't be anything pleasant. As he watched the hostile surroundings, Neal was hoping that Mozzie had been smart enough to leave the country – and he was deeply grateful that he didn't know the name of Mozzie's current alias.

o - o - o

After a long hard day at the office, Peter had been profusely relieved when he finally got back to Brooklyn.

"Honey, I'm home. Hey, buddy," he laughed when Satchmo greeted him happily, wiggling his tail and giving him an excited bark.

"Peter? I think you need to meet someone."

Elizabeth's voice sounded strange. Peter frowned. All his senses on alert, he entered the living room. "Hon, what…?" He stilled. Here, on his couch, a mere four feet away from El, was a short bald man with thick glasses whom Peter recognized from an FBI file. "You!" Peter breathed, his hand reaching for his gun. "Get away from my wife!"

"Peter?" Elizabeth stood up and walked to his side.

The man stared at him, eyes wide with fear. He swallowed before speaking. "You must be Peter Burke, then."

"And you're Mozzie Haversham, Neal's new partner in crime. What the hell are you doing in my house? No, forget that. You're under arrest for–"

"Wait! Sui– err, Peter. Please, don't do that."

Still clutching his handcuffs, Peter kept glaring at the thief in his living room. "Why are you here, Haversham?"

"Neal's in trouble," said Haversham. "I can't handle it alone – I _tried_. Neal said that – I couldn't find you at first, and then Hale said I was crazy, but June thought you might be able to help, so I came anyway. Believe me, I wouldn't be here if I saw another option."

"Well, at least that is clear," stated Peter, his anger slowly giving in to puzzlement. What was the deal with this guy, and what did he mean about June and 'Hale'? "So tell me, how do you know Neal and why did the two of you rob a museum?"

"Whoa, slow down. We didn't do that," said the man with a frown.

"Of course you didn't." At least here, he was on a familiar ground. "Okay, I get it. You're in a mess, you need someone to bail you out.… Well, tell Neal that if he wants my help, then he can turn himself in to me and I'll see what I can do. You don't come to my house and you sure as hell don't send a middleman– "

"Is that what you think this is?" exclaimed Haversham. "You think I'd come here begging for your help when you sent him to jail six years ago?"

"Look–"

"He was _kidnapped_! I heard him on the phone, they.…" He sighed. "Somehow, they found us. They took him to get to me."

"What do you mean, to get to you? What is going on here?"

Haversham hesitated before shaking his head. "What's the use? You won't believe me anyway."

"Well, he definitely won't believe you if you don't talk to him." Elizabeth spoke up unexpectedly. "Besides, don't underestimate my husband. You'd be surprised what he's willing to believe, especially when it comes to Neal Caffrey."

Peter looked at her. "Hon–"

"No, Peter." El paused. "You brought this to our lives, so we're going to see it through, whatever it is. And when we're done, I don't want to hear that name again."

Staring into her eyes, Peter realized that she was dead serious.

Six years ago, chasing Neal Caffrey had almost broken his marriage. It had taken four months of counseling and a two-week vacation to fix the damage that his obsession had done to them. And right at that moment, Peter realized that El was more important to him than whatever mystery that Neal had become wrapped in.

"I can give the case to someone else," he said quietly. "If you want me to drop this–"

"Agent Burke – Neal is my best friend," said Haversham with a hint of desperation. "Mrs. Burke – Elizabeth.…"

"Leave her out of this," snapped Peter immediately.

"Hon, I love you, but you don't have to defend me." Elizabeth paused, giving their 'guest' a speculative look. "You said you needed to talk to my husband. Why Peter?"

Haversham sighed. "I don't know. Honestly, I don't!" he said when Peter was about to interrupt. "It's just – Neal said I should trust you. And I don't know if he was right or not, but … even if you're not working with the CIA, it doesn't matter if you turn me in or just chuck me out. It means that I've failed."

There was a long moment of silence.

"All right, I'm willing to listen," said Peter at last.

Elizabeth stood up. "I'll get us something to drink."

o - o - o

A CIA conspiracy. Secret labs with forbidden research. Mad scientists, kidnapping and brain manipulation. In short, it was one of the most fantastical stories Peter had ever heard.

"Well?" demanded Haversham – or Handerson? – at last. "Do you believe me?"

"Not a word," replied Peter dryly.

"Right, of course you don't," exclaimed their companion and shot up on his feet. "Now I know why Neal called you 'the Suit'." He shook his head. "This was a mistake."

_The Suit?_ Well, he supposed there were worse names. "You don't have one shred of evidence," Peter pointed out calmly.

"No _evidence?_ What about Neal, huh? That's right, _he's missing!_ There's your damn evidence!"

"Not everything is a conspiracy," replied Peter. "For example, a much simpler explanation is that you're in contact with Neal and he asked you to do this to throw me off his trail. Or, maybe you did something to him and you're trying to cover your tracks. Hell, maybe you came here just for the kick of messing with the FBI. I don't even know if you are who you claim to be."

"What, you want to see my birth certificate now?" said Haversham sarcastically.

Peter shook his head. "As if Neal couldn't have forged anything he needed."

"Fine, then ask me a question from biology, chemistry, medicine – anything you want."

"Wouldn't mean anything except that you were an 'A' student in high school." Peter paused. "Fine, you said you taught at a university? Prove it." He stood up and went to retrieve his laptop. "There. You say you're a teacher, then turn on your university website and log in."

Haversham shook his head. "I can't. If the CIA discovers that I've accessed my account, they'll immediately know I was here."

"Well, then we can look up your name at the university and–"

"No, you _can't!_ They'll know!" Frustrated, Haversham stood up. "What do you think they'll do to Neal once they don't need him, huh? You think that they'll just let him go after they kidnapped him?"

"There's no evidence that Neal was even taken," said Peter reasonably, his own doubts momentarily pushed aside.

"Then why hasn't he contacted me yet?"

"Maybe he just doesn't want to talk to you."

"No way," said Haversham with vehemence. "He wouldn't do that to me."

"He left behind empty handcuffs and fled the scene of the crash," said Peter, thinking aloud. "All of the CIA agents from our car were still there; they couldn't have done it. Caffrey left on his own."

"What are you talking about? What car crash?"

o - o - o

"You found him. You caught him and then turned him in to them," said Mozzie in horrified realization. The events of the day of Neal's disappearance suddenly became clear.

According to Burke's explanation, he had led the CIA to Neal and then let them take him. _Suit_, thought Mozzie viciously, mentally pronouncing Neal's nickname as an insult. He had wasted over a week searching for a ghost, when he should have been focusing on finding Neal. He had been a fool when he thought that he could trust the man.

"I didn't – that's not what happened," objected the FBI agent.

"You _let them_ take him," accused him Mozzie angrily, finding an outlet for his own guilt.

"I didn't let them do anything," the Suit exclaimed. "I was going with them – why am I even arguing with you? I still don't even know if you're who you claim to be."

"Right, keep to that reasoning. Stick your head in the sand– "

"Then let's find out."

Surprised by the interruption, both Mozzie and the Suit looked at Elizabeth.

"Hon…?"

Mrs. Suit cleared her throat. "You, Mister.…"

"Paul Handerson. Call me Paul or Mozzie."

Elizabeth nodded. "Right. You said you're a scientist and a teacher. That means you probably lectured at conferences, right?"

Mozzie frowned. "You don't understand. If your IP address is monitored, you can't search for my name–"

"We don't have to," said Burke in realization. "If there are photos – El, you're a genius. Tell me some of the conferences you attended."

Reluctantly, Mozzie nodded. "I had a lecture in Toronto about three months ago.…"

o - o - o

Five websites later, Peter was finally convinced.

He knew that Neal was capable of creating a thorough alias. However, the man across from him didn't seem like being very good at lying to someone's face. Either that or "Mozzie" was far better at deception than Peter suspected. But Peter didn't think so.

"Well, you are who you said you are." He paused. "About the rest of your story–"

"It isn't a story," said Mozzie resignedly. "Neal's–"

"I understand that he could be in danger." Troubled, Peter's mind started picturing various distressing scenarios. While he strongly believed in the system, he knew that even people in authority sometimes crossed the line, and the CIA wasn't known for treating suspects with kid gloves. If they _did_ have Neal.…

If they had Neal, then they had lied to him. They might have just withheld information from him … or they might have actually staged the car crash. Unlikely as it sounded, he couldn't discard that option anymore in light of Mozzie's testimony.

"I need something more," said Peter at last.

"I come to you for help and that's all you say?" exclaimed Mozzie.

"I can't go accusing the CIA of kidnapping based on a hunch and the word of someone who refuses to come forward," replied Peter reasonably. "I have to investigate this."

"_Investigate?!"_

Peter sighed. "There's a procedure–"

"Screw _procedure_," interrupted him Mozzie forcefully.

"What do you want me to say, Mozzie?" asked Peter at last.

"I want you to say that you'll find him! I _want_ you to help me bring him back in one piece."

"He will," Elizabeth spoke up again.

Surprised, Peter looked at her. "What? El, I don't–"

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" Elizabeth asked seriously.

"Err.…"

"Let's go to the kitchen, shall we?"

Wordlessly, Peter followed his wife, leaving Mozzie unattended in his living room with Satchmo. Once they were alone, he gave El an apologetic smile. "Hon, I'm sorry–"

"You have to do something, Peter," said Elizabeth forcefully.

Peter blinked. "What do you mean?"

"This Mozzie – hon, he doesn't know what he's doing. He's a university teacher who's trying to take on the CIA. He's going to get hurt."

"I'm still not entirely sure I even believe his story," opposed Peter.

"Well, I believe him. I think you should help him."

"El, it's not that simple–"

"Why not?"

"I– " Peter huffed, then released a frustrated breath. "Why do you care so much anyway? I thought you didn't like Neal."

"It's not about him.… Have you seen how scared Mozzie is? He wants his friend back, to keep him safe. Wouldn't you have done the same in his place?"

Peter hesitated before voicing his fear. "What about you? Honey, I don't want this to hurt you. To hurt _us_."

"It won't," said Elizabeth strongly. "Not unless we let it."

Peter wished he had his wife's confidence.

But if Paul or "Mozzie" was telling the truth, if the CIA was using innocent people as test subjects, then they needed to be stopped. And if they had Caffrey … well, Peter had few qualms in putting someone in prison if that was what the law demanded, but he also believed that even suspects should be protected by the law.

Peter exhaled. "All right, I'll check his story, then I'll see what I can do. And I promise _you_ that no matter what happens, I won't shut you out again."

"I love you," said El before placing a kiss on Peter's cheek. Then she smiled. "Well, I guess we've already let our guest waiting for long enough, don't you think?"

However, when they came back, the living room was empty, the only things waiting there were a note and a cell phone.

'_Preset n. 2, every day at 7 a.m. and 8 p.m. Call me when you believe me.'_

Peter swiftly walked to the door to look outside, but the street was empty, their guest probably long gone.

"Now what?" asked Elizabeth.

Peter exhaled. "Now, I'm going to get some evidence."

o - o - o

_Cold. Harsh artificial light. Silence._

Suppressing the sob that threatened to break through his throat, Neal hugged his arms even closer to himself.

He was naked, and he hadn't slept in what felt like days. His feet were killing him from standing up too long. He was locked in a tall, narrow metal box that functioned like some sort of freezer.

He couldn't rest. If he tried, they would know and drench him with ice water again, making the cold even worse. His teeth chattering, Neal tried to think of heat … the hot Egyptian sun of Cairo … the warm beaches of Florida … the beautiful, burning fireplace at June's.…

_He was in June's bedroom, sitting on her beautiful warm couch in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a huge soft blanket. June was there, with her arm around his shoulders, and she placed a cup of hot chocolate into his shivering hands. "Drink, Neal," said Ellen from the place opposite him – June smiled, and Ellen smiled, and Mozzie and Peter smiled as the fire burned– _

His eyes snapping open, Neal barely managed to stay standing, swaying on his feet as his concentration lapsed. No matter the fatigue, he had to stay upright to get through this. Once again, he focused on the walls of the freezer … there were scratches that he didn't remember making. Perhaps they had been left there by someone else.…

_It must have been hours already.… How long were they going to keep him there?! _

In a burst of rage, he slammed his palms against the door. Again. Again. Again–

The door was yanked open. Neal had barely a second to enjoy the sudden rush of warm air before getting splashed with another bucket of cold water. He yelped before crouching and curling on the floor.

"Get up."

"Please," he begged hoarsely.

"_Get up._ I won't say it again."

Stubborn, Neal remained unmoving in the corner of his box.

The next bucket of cold water was poured directly over his head and back. Someone roughly pulled him on his feet. Fighting blindly, Neal suddenly stilled when he felt the taser pressed directly to his skin, the sick feeling combined with exhaustion causing him to nearly tear up. "Please.…"

Adams snorted impatiently. "Enough of the drama, Caffrey. Where is Paul Handerson?"

Neal remained silent. With a growl, Adams pushed him back into the box.

"Wait –!"

The door was shut closed again.

With his hair dripping with water, the cold was so much worse.

It had been five days since his escape attempt. _Five days_. He didn't know how much more he could take.

But he couldn't give them Moz. He had to stay strong if he were to survive this. He _had_ to.

Once again, Neal desperately trailed his fingers all over the surface of the box. He didn't care anymore that the camera was watching him. There had to be a way out, there just _had_ to be one.…

_France had been spectacular. The warm sun, the sea.…_ No, no sea. Neal violently shuddered at the image of water. _The balcony, then. Lovely view and lots of flirting with Alex.…_ Neal momentarily smiled at the thought of Alex in bikini. They would never work out as a couple, but that didn't mean they couldn't have some fun in the meantime.…

_He wanted to sleep. He wanted to die.…_

A new violent shiver and then Neal started coughing.

The door got yanked open.

"No!" _It couldn't be, not yet!_ He pressed his back against the wall in fear when he saw Adams with another bucket.…

"Have you gone crazy?"

Eyes wide, Neal stared at the new arrival. With a glare, Adams placed the bucket back on the floor. "This interrogation isn't over yet. We _need_ that information."

"And the guidelines are there for a reason. He won't tell you anything if he dies from pneumonia," opposed Davis before looking at Neal. "Damn it, Caffrey. You look like crap."

"T-tell me something I d-don't know."

"Shit." Davis shook his head. "I'll be right back."

Waiting for the other agent's return, Adams and Neal stared at each other in tense silence.

A few moments later, Davis arrived with a fluffy bath sheet and some clothes. "Here. Dry yourself up."

Accepting the towel, Neal quickly did as he was told. Afterwards, he started putting on the white clothes the CIA agent offered him, but momentarily stopped after putting on the shirt. "Where's the underwear?"

"Do you really think you'll need it here, Caffrey?" Adams snickered.

His heart pounding, Neal wordlessly looked at Davis for support.

"Put your clothes on. You need to get warm."

It wasn't as if the CIA wasn't already controlling his every move. Swallowing the new humiliation, Neal put on the trousers and slippers, but he shied back when he saw the familiar black hood. "Where are you taking me?"

"That depends on you," said Davis calmly. "You know what you have to do."

Neal started shaking. "I won't tell you.… I don't know. _I don't know!"_

They pulled the hood over his head and pushed him to start walking.

"Where are we going?" he tried again, but the hood muffled his voice.

_He couldn't take this anymore. He couldn't handle another round of torture!_

_For Moz. Moz was his best friend. Mozzie was.…Mozzie.…_

_He would not give them the satisfaction._

When they stopped, he tensed up as he waited for the hood to be removed. He felt the familiar pull and then blinked to find himself … back in his cell.

The door closed behind him before he managed to shake off the disorientation.

The artificial light was almost as harsh as the one in the box, but there weren't any CIA agents watching him. Tentatively, Neal took a few hesitant steps to his bed.

He was hungry and thirsty, but it all paled in view of the bone-deep _exhaustion_. His head was pounding, his whole body was shaking with small tremors and his muscles exploding in random spasms. Barely trusting his senses, Neal shakily ran his hand over his cot before sitting down.

_It was there._

Uttering a hysterical chuckle, Neal collapsed on the cot, desperate to catch a moment of sleep before they woke him up again–

Then the door to his cell opened again and Neal almost burst out in tears.

"You bastards. What now?" he spat angrily at the CIA Agent.

"I brought you some meds and tea," said Davis, holding a cup and several pills.

"I'm not taking them."

"You can take them willingly, or we can drag you to the infirmary where we'll force feed them to you or even inject them." The agent paused. "We're not trying to drug you. Now, take the pills, Neal."

"Go fuck yourself."

Davis stared at him. "Take the pills, Neal," he repeated slowly.

Taking a deep breath, Neal stood up and started reaching forward as if to accept the cup. Then he knocked it out of the agent's hand and tried to punch him in the face.

Not even breaking a sweat, Davis intercepted his clumsy attempt and twisted his arm behind his back. "That was enough," he said softly. "I like your spirit, but I can't have you falling sick on me, so take those pills or I _will_ drag you to the infirmary. And stop struggling before you hurt your shoulder."

They may have been harmless, they may have been mind drugs or they may have been poisonous. Either way, Neal knew he didn't have a choice. He nodded in submission and waited for Davis to let go.

Shakily, he took the pills from the CIA agent and then sat on the bed until Davis brought him a cup filled with water. He put the pills in his mouth, took the cup and swallowed. Davis gave him a satisfied nod, took the cup and left.

Sitting still, Neal waited for several moments before lying down on the bed. Making sure his face was hidden from possible cameras, he silently spit out the pills and hid them under the sheets, planning to flush them down the toilet in a few hours.

Then he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

o - o - o


	5. Part IV

**PART IV**

"… _too high. You can't.…"_

"… _don't care. The time's pressing …"_

"… _as I said, it's too dangerous. You can't stick him back in the cold box."_

"_To hell with you, doc. Do you know what could happen if that information got into the wrong hands?"_

"We wouldn't be in this position if you hadn't gotten carried away, Adams. Besides, there are other ways. Thank you, doctor."

"My pleasure, Agent Davis."

There were three of them; Adams, Davis and someone Neal didn't know – probably the doctor. His eyes shut, Neal tried to keep his breath even, not alerting his captors that he had awoken.

"I don't know what you're thinking, Davis–" started Adams.

"Caffrey's an American citizen, and he's not a terrorist.… He has also just woken up." Davis smiled. "Good morning, Neal."

_And here we go again. _

His heart sank. Knowing the gig was up, Neal opened his eyes. "Good morning, Agent Davis," he said with a charming smile. Then he looked to his side and jerked violently when he realized that there was an IV leading into his arm. He tried to get up to rip it out, only to get pulled back by restraints on his wrists and ankles. With growing panic, Neal stared at the doctor. "What's this, what have you given me? … _What are you giving me_?"

"It's the standard cocktail of antibiotics," stated Davis at last. "I told you; we can't have you sick with pneumonia."

"I don't believe you." Once again, Neal tried to rise in the bed.

"Settle down." Frowning, Davis pushed him back down, then removed his hand when Neal stopped struggling.

"Hey, maybe we _should_ inject him with something," said Adams thoughtfully. "It's a shame we no longer use LSD. Hey, Doctor, do you have any interesting drugs here?"

The doctor frowned. "I don't think–"

"Imagine all the things we could do to you, Caffrey," said Adams with a dark chuckle. "We can make your nerves so overstimulated that even the slightest impulse causes unbearable pain. Or we could inject you with a slow acting poison. Some of them last two days, so we'll have plenty of time to interrogate you before it finally kills you. Or maybe drugs that can make you blind – permanently, in case of repeated applications?" Adams smiled. "So many options.…"

"Fuck you."

They were empty threats. He could easily call their bluff. They were just trying to scare him.…

_Oh God, he would never paint again. He would never _see_ again._

For them, he was just a body with information. So far, they had mostly been careful not to do permanent damage, but in the end they only needed to keep him well enough to answer their questions.

Empty threats, thought Neal hollowly.

"There are fifty-seven approved concoctions on the list. Imagine all the possibilities, Caffrey.…"

He was a first rate con man and liar. He should have been able to form a bond with them within _hours_ of stepping onto the base. In prison, he had managed to con everyone, the guards, the thugs and the murderers, and he had found "friends" and protection before the end of his first week.

But despite his recent rest, his head was still pounding and he was exhausted from days without sleep. Adams was a highly intelligent sadist on a mission, so winning him over was a lost cause. Davis on the other hand actually seemed to respect Neal, at least to a certain degree. Staring alternately at Davis and the doctor, Neal tried to find the words that would make them feel sympathy for him, tried to think of a way that would make them find him worthy of their protection. The doctor gave an impression of someone indifferent; his face betrayed no emotion, and there was very little in his appearance that would give Neal any clues to his personality. Davis respected Neal's strength and intellect, and he also wasn't particularly fond of Adams and his position in this operation; however, it didn't seem like he had enough influence to take over completely. Any attempts to turn the agents against each other might dangerously backfire, which meant that there were no clear ways to take control of the situation.

_He only had any value because they thought he might lead them to Mozzie, and they would do whatever it took to get Neal to betray him. Once they broke him or found Moz on their own, he would be worthless to them – unless they tried to use him against Moz in some other way. He had to do something, or he might not get out of there alive. _

He had to orchestrate another escape, and this time, he had to make sure he actually succeeded. A beginning of a plan was already forming in his mind.

"… Caffrey? _Caffrey!_"

Brought back from his musings by Adams's voice, Neal smirked at the agent. "What? Do I need to be awake for the next round of your tender care, or do you just plan to bore me with your endless drivel?"

_Careful!_

Neal barely suppressed a flinch when Adams moved towards him, only to be stopped when Davis placed a hand on his shoulder. _Too much_, he thought as he watched the expression on the agent's face. Bravery and resistance were going to win him some points, but Davis was not going to be impressed by foolish bravado that wasn't backed by any substance. Right now, his act was all over the place. _Focus._

The doctor looked at the agents. "I have my own work. Call me if you need me."

"Oh, we will," said Adams nastily.

_Not good._

Neal cleared his throat. "Look, I can't lead you to Mozzie. What do you want from him anyway? He's just a scientist."

Davis frowned. "I think you know exactly why we want to talk to Paul."

"No, why?" Neal looked between them with a hint of curiosity and confusion.

Adams snorted. "Oh, come on, Caffrey. You want us to believe that you ran all over the States with Handerson and your friend never explained why we were chasing the two of you?"

"He didn't have to. He's my _friend_. My best friend who asked for help." Neal paused before taking a little jab. "I understand such a concept might be foreign to you."

"So Handerson called and you just came running? Bullshit."

Davis stared at him in contemplation. "He really never explained why we were tracking the two of you?"

Neal looked straight into his eyes. "He never told me anything."

For a moment, there was just silence as Davis stared at the space next to Neal's head. Then he suddenly chuckled. "You know, Neal, it's a pity you didn't become a CIA agent. You really almost had me convinced."

"Forgive me if I don't appreciate the compliment." _Damn._ "What gave me away?"

"Your heart rate spiked when you lied," said Adams flatly.

"How…? Oh." He was surrounded by medical instruments; of course one was measuring his heart rate.

"Better than a polygraph," said Davis with a small smile.

Neal wished he could punch him in the face. "Cool trick," he said with a hint of admiration.

"Enough play, Davis," said Adams impatiently.

Davis nodded. "You're right." He stared at Neal. "The question is the same. Where is Paul Handerson? What alias is he using? How can we find him?"

"I have nothing to tell you."

"And that is a lie," said Adams resolutely.

Neal cursed his body from betraying him. He kept his breath even, but his experiences with polygraphy had taught him that that might not be enough to control the subtle nuances of his heart rate.

"How did the two of you meet?" asked Davis.

Silence.

"How long have you known each other?"

…

"Why did you return to New York? … Do you know where he is? … Where is he now? Where was he when we caught you?"

Silence.

"Where is Mozzie, Neal?"

"You're repeating yourself," said Neal at last. "How long do you want to keep this up?"

Adams smiled. "Don't worry, Caffrey. We have all the time in the world."

Neal didn't need to see the monitor to know that his heart rate had just spiked in fear.

o - o - o

They already knew that bribery wouldn't work and he wouldn't break under threats. They still had him on antibiotics and didn't want to risk him getting pneumonia, which meant they couldn't put him in the cold box again.

Neal should have known better than to underestimate the CIA's resourcefulness when it came to "interrogation".

They put him into a small, padded dark room and fitted him with black-out goggles, earmuffs and mittens. Neal had spent the first few hours sleeping, trying to recover from his earlier ordeal. Compared to the cold box, this had seemed bearable, almost mild. However, Neal's instincts told him that any relief would be premature at best.

He was really starting to hate it when reality proved him right.

Neal himself was a social creature, but even the toughest guys and biggest loners at prison had hated and feared solitary. Yet even the hell of solitary had been only a much mellower version of what the CIA had prepared for him.

At first, he was just antsy. He tried to keep himself occupied with his fantasy, but eventually his mind failed him. Fear kept gnawing at him. He had no idea how much time had passed.

He couldn't see. He couldn't hear or touch.

_He couldn't see! _Had they really blinded him as Adams had threatened? Panic rose in him; he tried to claw at his face but the mittens were stopping him. Hyperventilating, Neal tried to hit the walls but could barely feel the contact.

He was choking. He was dying. Everything was dark and there were loud shrieking noises.…

'_I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Please, I'll tell you!'_

'_It's okay. You did good, Caffrey.…'_

_Somehow, he managed to pull off the mittens and take off the earmuffs. That was when he heard it … there was someone else there with him. Neal quickly took off the goggles, but the room was still too dark. Moving towards the soft whimpering noise, Neal carefully reached forward.…_

_And pulled back in horror. _

_He couldn't see him, but he recognized the familiar glasses and the voice. "Oh no. Please, no.…"_

"… _you b'trayed me.…"_

"_You're not supposed to be here – come on, Moz! Get up! You have to escape!"_

"… _made a mistake … shouldn't've trusted you.…"_

"_No, that wasn't the deal! You hear me? He wasn't supposed to be here! Moz, I'm so sorry.…"_

_Mozzie was bleeding and his hands were sticky and they had to escape and it was his fault–_

It's not real.

He chewed on his cheek and tongue until he drew blood, then tried digging his toes into the padded surface. For a few moments, the pain was enough to ground him until even that slipped away.…

"_I always knew you had it in you, son."_

_Neal frowned. "Dad?"_

_James smiled. "You killed them."_

"_What?!" _

_That was when he saw the bodies. Greeves, Adams, Davis.…_

_He was holding a gun. _

"_They deserved it," said James. _

"_I– I– "_

"_Remember what they did to you? To Mozzie? They deserved it, Neal. You did what you had to do."_

_Unmoving, Neal stared at the bodies of the CIA agents, until they started to morph into June, Mozzie and Ellen in front of his very eyes.…_

NO!

Time had stopped. The sky and the ground had disappeared. He was hanging in a void in the middle of nowhere.

"_Neal?"_

_He was dead._

"_Neal, I'm here. I came for you."_

"_No.…"_

"_It's all right. I'm here to rescue you."_

_Neal blinked. "Peter…? Is that you?"_

"_Of course it's me, Neal."_

_Astonishment. "You found me?"_

"_I will always find you." Peter squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, Neal. Let me get you out of these.…"_

"_You're not real," said Neal warily._

"_What are you talking about? Of course I'm real." With incredible gentleness, Peter removed Neal's goggles, mittens and earmuffs. "All right, time's up."_

_Neal blinked as he was suddenly hit by an unexpected amount of light, then started shivering uncontrollably. "Peter.…"_

"_It's all right. Neal, calm down."_

"_Peter.…" _

_Forgetting all dignity, Neal clutched at Peter's shirt and began to sob._

"_Neal, come on.…"_

"_I can't– I can' – p-please, Peter.…"_

"_Calm down, Neal."_

_He's broken and shattered and terrified, and his whole body is shaking so hard– _

"That's enough, Caffrey."

Something about the tone was completely wrong and _off_.

Snapping out of his delusion, Neal finally returned to reality.

He was outside the padded room, where the CIA agents had just removed his earmuffs, mittens and goggles. His whole body was shaking, his cheeks were wet and he was still desperately clinging to someone's shirt. Looking up to the face of his "savior", Neal recognized the familiar features of Agent Davis.

Adams smiled. "Hello, Caffrey. Welcome back to hell."

o - o - o

"They were right."

"Excuse me?"

Turning away from the presentation board, Peter hesitated before giving Diana a nod. "Diana. Come in and shut the door, please."

With a curious look at the presentation board, Diana obeyed Peter's command and stepped inside the office. "What's going on, boss?"

Peter swallowed. "I wish I knew."

"Can I help?"

If not for the direness of the situation, Peter would have smiled at her immediate question. However, he wasn't sure whether involving Diana was a good idea – hell, he still wasn't sure he wasn't just imagining things. But he had spent the whole morning going over the facts, and now the evidence was speaking on its own.

Making a sudden decision, Peter turned to Diana. "Maybe. Do you remember the car crash during which Neal escaped?"

Diana gave a small nod. "I didn't know you were still investigating that. Are those the street images from the area?"

"Yes." Peter paused. "The crash was staged."

"What? ... By whom? I mean, how can you be so sure?"

"I went over the footage of the car crash again. You know we don't have any recordings from the immediate vicinity of the crash …" Diana nodded. "… but I went over what we had from the surrounding streets and tried to make a make a map. Watch this.…"

Peter turned to the board. "The black area in the middle is the footage that we don't have. Here …" he pointed at a rectangular street view in the upper right corner, "… you can see the car approaching that eventually crashed into ours." Using the cursor, Peter got the street to move. They waited for a few seconds before–

"There," said Diana sharply and pointed at the familiar blue van. "It's coming your way before it disappears from view."

"Right," said Peter. "Now, here is our car.…" He clicked on another rectangle, waiting for Diana to spot them.

"I see it."

"Good." Peter clicked on the black rectangle in the middle to replace it with a small map. "Based on our speed and the map, it would have taken our car roughly twenty or thirty seconds to get to the site of the crash."

"I agree," said Diana with a small frown. "What is the point?"

"Look at this." Peter turned on the footage with the blue van. He stopped it right when the car disappeared from the picture.

"It would have taken them thirty or forty seconds to get to the crash site," noted Diana.

"Exactly. Now check the timestamps."

Staring at the two pictures, Diana's eyes widened in realization. "They don't match. The van takes maybe three minutes before it crashes into you. They had to have stopped somewhere.…"

"They waited until our car was in the vicinity," spoke Peter darkly. "It was a setup."

Biting her lip, Diana frowned. "Could the timing of the cameras be wrong?"

Peter shook his head. "I checked with three other cars fifteen minutes before the crash. The cameras are in synch. There's no mistake. Anyway, that's not all."

"What do you mean?"

Peter turned on one of the mini-screens that had stayed dark so far. "There was another car that arrived from a different direction within the timeline of the crash. I didn't notice it at first, but the timestamps suggest that they spent maybe a minute at the site of the crash before driving off."

Diana frowned. "You mean, they could have seen the crash? Did they try to help you?"

"Everything from the accident is kind of fuzzy.…" Peter released a frustrated sigh. "But no. If they had tried to help us, I would have remembered. No, I'm sure they drove past us, stopped for a while and then left, and it had nothing to do with helping us."

"So they stopped to look at the accident before leaving?" Diana paused. "You can't think that.…"

"That they planned to be here exactly at that moment? That they stopped there to pick up Caffrey? That's exactly what I think, Diana."

Diana's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you think Caffrey orchestrated this to escape?"

"Neal? No. It's not his MO, and more importantly, he didn't have the opportunity. No, I think.…" Peter hesitated.

"You think it's the people that Neal was supposedly smuggling things for – the group that we were told about by the CIA."

"That, or the CIA simply decided that they didn't want to share their prisoner and kidnapped him right from under our grasp."

Silence.

"Boss, you can't be serious," said Diana in disbelief.

Peter shook his head. "Actually I'm dead serious." For a moment, he stared at the board before facing Diana again. "In theory, it seemed so clear. Neal paired up with this "Haversham" guy, who got him involved in international smuggling, in turn involving the CIA."

"That makes sense," Diana pointed out.

"No it doesn't." Peter shook his head. "See, Neal had a good job 'security consulting' and playing pretend at robbing museums. I won't say it made me happy, but he had stuck with it for two years. Then when it looked like he returned to being a thief, I thought he wanted the thrill back.… But _smuggling?_ Moving in the shadows and working with someone suspicious that he doesn't even know well?"

"'Gary Rydell' was a smuggler," said Diana.

"True, but … Caffrey's flashy. He likes to act for the crowd; he's like a peacock. I don't think he would have left what he had just for some quick cash."

"Maybe prison changed him," offered Diana. "Maybe it was an offer he couldn't refuse."

And there were the exact rational arguments that Peter had told himself before. Yet he couldn't shake the impression that the picture didn't fit. "I understand what you're saying, but.… There are just too many little things that don't add up."

"Like what?"

"Like, who is Paul Handerson?"

"Paul Handerson?"

This was the last chance to back out and handle things on his own. "Take a seat. This is going to take some time…."

o - o - o

'_Tell us a story, Neal.'_

Day, night, he could no longer tell them apart. They'd come to his cell at random times. The door would open, they would walk inside and threaten to drag him for another round of torture. He fought, he screamed, he cried and pleaded and begged, until Davis spoke the magical phrase again. _'Tell us a story, Neal.'_

And Neal did.

They no longer asked him about Moz. Instead, Davis wanted to know all about Neal's past. '_How did you disable the alarm system?'_ he asked about a heist in Morocco, and Neal told him about sleeping with the guard who became his inside person. _'Why not steal both of the paintings?'_ he wondered about his break-in into the Scottish National Museum, and Neal eagerly explained why he stole the basically unknown worthless piece but left behind the supposed "masterpiece" which he considered vulgar and ugly. _'How do you like your toast?'_ asked Davis, and Neal didn't care about the relevance of the question but hurried to talk about differences between peanut butter and strawberry jam.

He didn't care about incriminating himself. He no longer worried about making himself more vulnerable. He would tell them anything, _everything_, if it made them happy for just an hour or two. He would talk himself hoarse about Picasso or his first sex or his favorite plant as long as they postponed another trip to the sensory deprivation chamber.

_But not about Moz. Never about Moz._

In a rare unguarded moment, Neal wondered if this was what Scheherazade had felt every night. The sick feeling, the sweat pouring down her back, her hands shaking, the instinct to run, _run, run_ as she desperately hoped that her smiles and charm and smarts would be enough to spare her one more time. But unlike Scheherazade who had given a thousand correct answers and only ever had to fear the morning, Neal screwed up sometimes and got tossed back into the chamber, his brilliant mind deteriorating further to the brink of insanity–

He was usually safe in his cell, but the door opened at random, and he never quite knew when they would come, couldn't allow himself to let his guard down. And sometimes Davis took mercy on him even when Neal tripped over his tongue or got lost in his story, but sometimes they still put him in goggles, earmuffs and mittens and tossed him into the padded tomb, no matter how hard he tried or how much he pleaded. Then they left him there, unable to see, hear or touch anything, panicking, hallucinating and delusional, doubting that he was still alive until they finally came to get him out again, broken, weak and defeated.

_But no matter what they asked, he never mentioned Mozzie, neither in stories of present or the past._

And Adams was growing impatient.

'_Tell me about your favorite movie,'_ Davis had asked the last time, and now Neal had prepared stories about his favorite music, his favorite sport, his favorite drama, even his favorite hat. Maybe if they gave him enough time, he could think of a way to escape–

The door opened to reveal Adams, Greeves and a doctor. "Hello again, Caffrey."

Jumping to his feet, Neal tried to stop from hyperventilating. "H-hello." He swallowed before attempting to put on a smile. "Where is Agent Davis?"

"Agent Davis is not here today," replied Greeves flatly. "Today, we will be trying something different."

Adams showed him the familiar black hood.

Eyes wide in fear, Neal took a step back. "Please.…"

Adams grabbed his hand while Greeves moved to pull the hood over his head.

"Wait–"

"Paul Handerson," said Greeves.

Neal swallowed and kept his mouth shut.

Greeves pulled the hood over his head, and he was once again left in darkness. Then Adams pushed him forward and they started walking.

o - o - o

They took him to a yet unknown part of the facility.

Neal felt a small amount of tentative relief when he realized that they had passed the sensory deprivation room. Yet he knew that whatever Adams had orchestrated could not be good. Still wearing the hood and under the threat of being tasered or worse, he let the agents guide him to a stiff bed of some sort, then laid down on the flat surface and allowed himself be restrained. As the straps tightened around his chest, arms, thighs and legs, Neal felt his panic rising again.

Then a rough hand pulled back the hood from his face to allow him to speak freely. "Last chance. Tell us where to find Paul Handerson and we will stop this immediately."

"I – I don't know–"

Greeves sighed. "Your choice, Caffrey." He put the hood back in place and took a step back.

Not being able to see, all Neal's remaining senses were on highest alert. He jerked against the restrains when the "bed" started to move. His feet were lifted high in the air and his head moved far down; however, he was so tightly bound to the board that he didn't slide down. He took a few short shallow breaths when suddenly someone clasped their hand against his face, covering his mouth.

He just managed to breathe in again when the water hit the cloth over his face and then continued pouring into his nose and all over his head. Within seconds, the water filled his mouth and throat. In terror, Neal coughed and tried to spit out the water, but the wet fabric was stuck over his nostrils and the water just kept coming no matter how hard he fought.…

He struggled against the restraints to no avail. He couldn't breathe. He tried to swallow but that only led to choking. He gasped and inhaled more water. He couldn't breathe. He was drowning. His lungs burned. He fought … no air. _**He couldn't breathe!**_

_He was going to die, and he wasn't ready and it couldn't end like this–_

Then suddenly they pulled him upright, and Neal kept coughing until he vomited into the hood, then took deep, wonderful breaths of air – he was alive, _thank God_, he could breathe, he was alive–

When they removed the hood from his face, Neal was shaking from head to toe, dimly aware of the already forming bruises from the restraints – but it didn't matter, because he could breathe and he wanted to cry in relief–

Then, Greeves moved towards him with a wet cloth. "No. No no no _please–"_

"There," said Greeves stiffly, wiping away the vomit from his face before stepping back.

Someone snickered.

"That was twenty seconds," announced Greeves. "Now, are you willing to talk to us, or do we have to do it again?"

"We don't! We don't have to! I swear we don't have to!"

He no longer cared about being humiliated. He just wanted to get back to his cell to _(breathe)_ to lick his wounds in private.

"Then talk to us."

He couldn't – he had to – _breathe_ – they'd kill him – but it was Moz–

"Caffrey! What do you know about Paul Handerson?" Greeves wasn't in a good mood.

"He – he drinks his juice with bendy straws," stuttered Neal. Adams started to move. "Wait! H-he snores when he has a cold. And he sings in the shower too!"

"You think you're so smart and funny, but you're pathetic, Caffrey," said Adams. "I wonder how long you'll last when I start to drown you again."

"Maybe you should try anger management," said Neal despite his terror.

Greeves frowned. "Do you think this is a game, Caffrey?"

Neal swallowed. "You're torturing me to get your hands on my best friend. No. It's not a game."

"It's called interrogation," said Greeves flatly. "And we wouldn't have needed to use the more enhanced techniques if you had just been reasonable any time over the last two weeks."

_Two weeks? Had it really been that long since they brought him to the facility?_

"Enough chit chat," said Greeves. "Did you change your mind yet? Do you have anything to tell us?"

Adams picked up a small canister and went to pour more water in it. Trembling, Neal's eyes watched him as he turned on the faucet and slowly started filling the container. "Look, I – Mozzie likes board games!" he exclaimed when Adams smiled at him. "He won a chess tournament in the sixth grade – H-he doesn't believe in the Moon landing!"

"I don't care about a chess tournament that happened twenty years ago! Where. Is. Paul. Handerson?"

Neal blinked back tears. "Look I swear, I swear I don't know–"

"Wrong answer," said Adams cheerfully.

The board moved again, until Neal's feet were high in the air and he was staring at the brick walls and ceiling. Then Adams put a wet cloth over his face, pressed his hand over Neal's mouth and started pouring again.

This time, Neal was ready for it.… He felt the water filling his sinuses and throat, but forced himself to exhale as slowly as possible despite his renewed panic.… He didn't inhale any of the water, but then his lungs were empty and he had to breathe again and the water moved up his throat–

He was drowning. He flailed against the restraints, fighting with all his strength but they were too tight. His instincts betrayed him and he tried to inhale through his nose, but the cloth only came closer and choked him more. He screamed through the water, and _why weren't they stopping_ and he couldn't breathe _no air couldn't breathe–_

Upright again.

Neal spit out and swallowed the water and then _breathed_. Shaking, crying and numb, he was barely aware when someone approached him. He jerked in fear when someone started checking his vital signs.

"Well, doctor?" asked Greeves from afar.

Neal's heart rose with a strong wave of hope. Maybe they'd take him to the infirmary?

"He's okay," said the doctor after a moment.

He broke down in tears. _He couldn't take it anymore! _

Greeves stared him in the eyes. "Well?"

_I'm sorry, Moz.… _"I told him … I told him to get out of the country. I made him passports.…"

"What names?" asked Greeves.

Neal faltered. "I don't– "

"_**The names!"**_ roared Adams and Neal jumped in the restraints.

"Nicholas Holden … Steve Tabernacle … George Donnely–"

"Those are your aliases," snapped Greeves impatiently. "I want the names you made for your friend."

"Haversham," said Neal tightly.

"We already know that! What else?"

Hyperventilating, Neal's eyes ticked between the two agents.

"We will turn the board again," said Greeves after a few moments of silence. "We will put the cloth back over your face and–"

"Specter. Jack Specter," Neal blurted out. "He was a middle-aged photographer with a thing for baseball; no kids, he worked for–"

"Handerson burned that alias after we almost found you the second time," said Greeves flatly. "But you already knew that. Adams–"

"No, wait! I – there is more. I – I made him a brand new identity – Tony Hunter. I made passports, IDs, everything – he was a real estate broker from Illinois–"

Greeves glared. "You already told us about that identity the first time we talked to you. Remember, when you conned us out of two hundred thousand dollars?" He nodded at Adams. "Carry on."

"NO! Oh my God, please don't!" In panic, Neal racked his brain for something that would please his captors. "Elliot Powell," he said hurriedly. "He was a forty-year-old primary school teacher with three kids – bought the newspaper every morning and always started with the crossword section.…"

There was a moment of silence.

"What was the name again?" asked Greeves at last.

"Elliot Powell," said Neal earnestly, even as his insides twisted in dread. "He's a school teacher–"

"Tell me _everything_ you know about that identity."

Please, let Moz be smart enough not to use that alias again, prayed Neal to whatever deity was listening even as he was telling them all he remembered about 'Elliot'. Before the CIA caught him, they had already replaced the identity with three new names, but if Mozzie wasn't cautious enough–

"I'll run the name," said Adams. "And I promise, Caffrey, if we don't find any connection to Handerson, you are going to regret it."

They weren't going to drown him again.

Sagging in relief, Neal let out a few hoarse sobs. _It was over._

"Very well," said Greeves. "Now, where can we find Mr. 'Powell'?"

Neal shook his head. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I swear–"

Adams moved to tilt the board again.

"Boston! Chicago! Atlanta! Paris, New Zealand, London, Hong Kong_ – Berlin! He's in Berlin!"_

Greeves swore.

"I'll check all of them," said Adams. Greeves gave him a terse nod.

_Wait, did that mean that Adams was more than just muscle and a sadist?_

And was that really enough for them?

Greeves's next words answered his question. "Break time's over," and then Adams moved the board again–

"You're going to give us better answers," said Greeves before Adams put a cloth over Neal's face.

A hand covered his mouth. Then the water hit his face again.

o - o - o

He was laying on his cot, trembling all over. His eyes shut, knees pulled up to his chest and his arms hugging his frame, Neal tensed even worse when he sensed someone approaching.

"Neal? Shit, Caffrey!"

Someone's hands pulled him upright before putting a blanket over his shoulders.

"Idiots! They weren't supposed to do this! What the hell was Greeves thinking? Come on, Caffrey, look at me. Caffrey. Neal."

Still trembling, Neal refused to open his eyes.

"Come on, Neal," repeated Davis softly. "Look at me. It's over, Neal. You're okay. Neal. Neal!"

Hesitantly, Neal opened his eyes.

Davis gave him a tense smile. "Thank God. You had me worried there for a moment."

"Where were you?" Neal whispered. To his horror, he felt close to tears again.

Davis grimaced. "There was a security threat – it's classified. I didn't know they'd waterboard you while I was gone. It takes a shitload of paperwork to get approval – I'm so sorry–"

"They t-tried to drown me," said Neal hoarsely.

"I know." Davis sighed. "Neal, I need you to listen to me. Adams is a psychopath. I tried to protect you from the worst, but I'm not the head of this operation. Adams is going to hurt you again, and one day he'll take it too far."

Neal shook his head. "It's Moz. I c-can't–"

"He'll kill you." Davis's statement was brutal and frightening. "If you stay here, I swear to God he'll kill you. He'll tie you to that board again and choke you for too long, or he'll leave you in the cold cell until you get sick again, or he'll inject you with some unapproved drugs–"

Neal's trembling hand clutched on Davis's wrist. "Help me," he whispered desperately. "Please–"

"I'm trying to. I can get you out of here, but I need you to trust me. Can you do that, Neal?"

Neal swallowed. "Okay."

"I can get you out of here," said Davis soothingly. "I've planned it – I found a way to help you escape from the base. We'll take you to the sensory deprivation room again–"

"No!"

"I said trust me, will you?" Davis waited until Neal gave him a shaky nod. "We'll take you to the sensory deprivation chamber, but this time, I'll make sure that you escape from there."

"How?"

"Let me worry about that.… You'll have to wait for about an hour after we lock you there. To help you get around the base, I'll hide some clothes for you and tell you how to find a way out that doesn't require any special identification."

"You'd do that?" asked Neal with a mixture of disbelief and hope. "Why? Why would you help me?"

"I don't like what they're doing here. I'll admit that sometimes you need to use a bit of persuasion – but not like this. Not on a civilian," said Davis. "Neal, listen. I can get you out of the base, but I can't help you once you're outside the walls. I'll draw you a map of the area, but the base is in the middle of nowhere."

"Okay." Neal nodded. "Okay, I'll – I'll figure it out. I'll hotwire a car–"

"The only cars in the vicinity belong to CIA personnel and they're embedded with tracking devices," interrupted Davis. "You need to get yourself your own lift. I'll lend you my phone so you can call Mozzie once we arrange the specifics–"

"You bastard."

Davis stilled. For a moment, there was silence.

Then Neal uttered a hysterical chuckle. "You knew. You knew the whole time what was happening."

"That's absurd."

"It all makes sense now." Neal took a deep breath. "From the beginning, you were trying to appear sympathetic to me. As they broke me, you would be the only one to show a bit of kindness, so I'd fixate my hopes on you–"

"Neal, that's paranoia–"

" – then when I was weakened enough, you'd come as the brave knight to my 'rescue' as the only one I could trust. And then I'd tell you everything."

"Neal–"

"If you planned to help me, why tell me here in this room in front of the cameras?"

His throat tight, Neal stared at Davis, a part of him desperately daring him to dispute the accusations. However, deep down he knew that he was right.

Finally, Davis chuckled. "Very well done, Mr. Caffrey," he said softly with a smile and a hint of admiration. "You really are wasted on a career of crime. What a shame we didn't find you in time!"

"I'd rather be a thief than a CIA bastard without a soul," gritted Neal through his teeth.

"Well, we all choose our path," said Davis before turning serious. "I meant what I said though. Greeves wants to find Handerson, which means Adams is not going to stop. If you have _anything_ to say to me–"

"Go to hell."

Davis sighed. "For what it's worth, I am sorry, Caffrey." Then he stood up and left without another word.

o - o - o

He wasn't ready. He didn't have enough information. He knew that the chances of success were slim, but it didn't matter. If he didn't escape now, in a few days he might lose his ability to even make a plan. He didn't think they would be paying much attention to him at the moment, which meant that he had to act right away before he lost his chance.

His cell had walls made of solid concrete; therefore, the only way out was through the door, which had an electronic mechanism on top of a conventional mechanical lock. Turning his attention to a plastic cover near the door that he had noticed some time ago, Neal managed to peel it off, revealing a thin plastic plate which seemed embedded in the wall. If he wasn't mistaken, underneath the plastic were electric wires for the door mechanism – wires which, if he did this right, would help him on his way towards freedom.

His room was devoid of almost any objects, which severely limited his options. However, one of the few things they had left him was a plastic cup, which would now serve Neal perfectly. He grabbed the cup and smashed it repeatedly against the plate that was hiding the wires until the plate broke. Carefully removing the shreds, Neal smiled when he saw the wires – just as he had expected.

For a brief moment, Neal studied the mechanism. Then he carefully picked one of the bigger shreds and started removing the coating from the wires. Two minutes later, he had exposed maybe an inch of metal on two separate wires before taking a deep breath. It was now or never. Neal moved to bring the wires together.

He was hit by a short wave of unbelievable pain before everything went black.

o - o - o


	6. Part V

**Part V**

_A beautiful sunny day, 1992, St. Louis. Sitting on the grass under a tree in the middle of the school yard, sixteen-year-old Paul Handerson was playing with his Rubik's cube, quickly turning it over in his hands until all of the six faces were back to their original colors. Checking his wristwatch, Paul frowned – he had yet to beat his last week's record of fifty four seconds. Realizing that there were still fifteen minutes of lunch break left, he set the cube aside and opened his school bag, pulling out an old, battered volume of Hamlet. He found the place where he had stopped before (Polonius had recently left to plan the meeting between Hamlet and poor Ophelia, while Hamlet, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were philosophically bantering) and opened the book with a content feeling. However, he had barely started reading when suddenly a shadow obscured his view and Paul found himself staring at a very familiar pair of boots. _

"_Hey, boys. Look who's hiding here!"_

_As Einstein had stated, great spirits had often encountered violent opposition from weak minds. Standing up, Paul stared into the faces of Josh Posner and his gang. "Hello, Josh. What a surprise."_

_Moving fast, Josh plucked the book out of Paul's hands. "'What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel!' – what's this crap, Handerson? You a fag or something?" Carelessly turning the book over in his hands, he ripped out a few random pages. Then he threw the book on the ground and stepped on it before kicking it aside._

_Paul glared before reaching for the script and collecting the missing pages. "It's called _classic literature, _Posner. Then again, I'm not surprised someone with the IQ of a cockroach doesn't know that."_

_He managed to avoid the first punch before one of Josh's lackeys hit him in the stomach. "You were saying, Handerson?"_

_Mozzie gasped._

"_Hey, look!" exclaimed another of Josh's bullies and picked up Paul's Rubik's cube. "It's the stupid puzzle that he always carries around! Hey fag, want your cube back?"_

"_Give it there."_

_Josh chuckled. "I don't think so. I think we'll teach you another lesson in respect."_

_The six bullies were bigger and stronger than him. Mozzie was smart enough to know that a direct confrontation could only end badly for him. He put on a big smile and looked somewhere behind Josh's shoulder. "Good afternoon, Mr. Rowland."_

_Predictably, Josh and his gang turned around to face their math teacher. When they realized their error, Mozzie had already grabbed his things and was sprinting away._

"_You!" exclaimed Josh and his gang gave chase, but Mozzie was smart enough to run in the direction where the teachers could see them from the windows of their offices. _

_Josh gave him one last glare before deliberately showing him his Rubik's cube and then burying it deep in his pocket. Realizing that they were risking being spotted, the bullies then turned around and went to pick on other kids in the more remote part of the schoolyard._

_Sitting on a nearby bench, Paul let out a breath of relief before frowning and then putting on a blank mask._

_Unknowingly, Josh had just stolen one of his most prized possessions from him. Paul was fond of his Hamlet book and he had other things and trinkets that he cherished, but the Rubik's cube held a very special place in his heart because of its origins._

_Growing up in the orphanage, Mozzie had learned soon enough that when push came to shove, he would always be on his own. When the Handersons adopted him, he had suddenly gained two people just to himself, plus a bunch of "aunts", "uncles" and "cousins". However, though he had come to love his new family with all his heart, he never really felt like he fit in with them. _

_He could talk to his new mom about physics and complicated mathematical equations, but when he started relating them to psychology and began drawing obscure historical references, she would stare at him in confusion. When the local bully bothered his cousin on the playground, Paul conned the older boy into leaving them alone, but his cousin didn't understand and acted hurt by Paul's seeming lack of caring. When he overheard his dad talking about his colleague being deceived by a completely obvious scam, Paul thought of the plans he had had as "the Dentist" and wisely kept his mouth shut. _

_He desperately wanted to blend in, and so he had learned not to speak of conspiracy theories; had pretended to enjoy the same comedies as his Dad, had even picked a favorite baseball team and went to matches with his uncle, even though the screaming crowds made him uncomfortable. Because he had to play the part – nothing was easy or unconditional, the least of all his family's acceptance, and he just wanted to be good enough, _normal_ enough, and belong._

_Until his new Dad sat him down, gave him the Rubik's cube and explained in not so many words that he didn't have to put on an act to be worthy of their love._

_The memory filled Paul with determination. One way or another, he would outsmart Josh and his bullies and get his cube back. And then he would find a way to stop them from terrorizing the kids._

_The break was about to end soon, so he might as well get back to class. With a grimace, Paul stood up and collected his bag. He was just about to start walking to the school entrance when he noticed a kid running his way. _

"_Hey, you! Wait!"_

_Frowning, Paul was about to walk away when he suddenly stilled, noticing the item in the kid's hands._

"_This is yours, right?" asked the unknown boy and handed Paul his Rubik's cube._

_Paul stared._

"_My name's Danny Brooks. I'm in the seventh grade," said the kid with a sunny smile. "Are you new here? I noticed you asking the teacher about the library.…"_

"_Paul Handerson," replied Paul automatically. He looked at the Rubik's cube in his hands before staring back at the kid. "How did you get this?" he asked in disbelief._

"_Nicked it from Josh Posner," said Danny cheerfully. _

_What? "But he had it in his pocket!"_

_Danny shrugged. "Posner's a moron," he said dismissively. He frowned. "You might want to go. Class is about to start in five minutes."_

_Staring at Danny, Paul began to reevaluate his initially dismissive opinion of the other boy._

_The kid couldn't have been older than twelve years at most. With his thick brown hair, big blue eyes and angelic face, he looked like innocence personified. And yet his eyes were hiding a spark of mischief and intelligence that had Paul intrigued. Not to mention that he wanted to know how Danny had taken his cube back from Josh.…_

"_Um, right.… Hey, thanks for getting my cube back." He wanted to stay and talk to the boy, but he really had to go to class.… "See you around, Danny."_

"_No problem," said Danny happily. "See you!"_

_Paul watched the kid run away in a different direction before starting to chat with a group of friends. With one last glance, he observed how Danny easily inserted himself into the group, animatedly telling a story and waving his hands around. With a small smile, Paul wondered whether they would get a chance to talk again at some point. Maybe.…_

_Then he turned away and started walking. He had to hurry or he would be late to Advanced Physics– _

**Riiing!**

Waking up, Mozzie turned off the alarm clock before sitting up in his bed. He collected his glasses from his nightstand and then checked the cameras surveying the area outside his storage unit, feeling a grim relief when he realized that his hiding place remained undiscovered. He then got dressed before walking to the "kitchen area" of his room and putting on a kettle to make tea.

While he made himself a sandwich and waited for the water to boil, Mozzie allowed himself to think of his dream. Recalling the first time he had met Neal, he realized that he was smiling, the memories of the simpler times acting like a soothing balm for their current hardships.

Their friendship was an oddity started by pure chance. With no shared classes nor clubs, there was no reason why a sixteen-year-old teenager should want to hang out with a kid that was four years younger than him. But somehow they had met again and started talking, and then they joined forces to stop Josh Posner from picking on other kids, and soon, Paul found himself growing exceedingly protective and fond of Danny. In a way, Danny acted as a connection to Paul's past in Detroit. Paul would never tell his parents about his plans to con the Detroit mob, but he could tell Danny who grinned back at him – and though Paul wouldn't have taken such a risk anymore, a part of him still felt a bit smug that he had _almost_ managed to con DeLuca while he was still a pre-pubescent kid.

Breaking free from his memories, Mozzie shook his head. They had had so many plans then… Neal was going to be a cop and fight injustice while Mozzie was already thinking of a career in science, and the two of them were going to change the world.

They had been naive and stupid.

Fixing his tea, Mozzie then took a bite of his toast while considering his plans for the day.

Ever since he had talked to Peter Burke a week ago, he had been working hard on gathering even the slightest scraps of information about the CIA and their black sites, barely catching a bit of sleep every now and then. Knowledge is power, and so Mozzie spent hours in various libraries and even more time perusing the Internet while occasionally meeting with suspicious individual and making shady contacts with people he would have widely avoided just a couple months ago. Luckily, the years in science had honed Paul's researching skills, so he instinctively knew which information was valid and which to discard, was able to spot discrepancies in stories of conspiracy theorists and notice leads that might be promising. Thus, slowly, one tiny piece after another, Mozzie was beginning to gain insight into the CIA.

But he hadn't yet learned anything that would help him find Neal, not to mention plan his rescue.

He had hoped he might hear from the Suit to tell him that he had changed his mind, but apparently Burke still didn't believe him or simply didn't care. Like so many times in his past, Mozzie was once again on his own.

He _would_ find Neal, and then the CIA better dread his ire. He ignored the little voice in his head that was whispering that it might already be too late.

Neal had come to his rescue without a hint of hesitation. Now it was up to Mozzie to do the same.

o - o - o

Peter knew he shouldn't have been surprised that the CIA was extremely unwilling to relinquish any information. Futile as his efforts might be, he had still filed a request to get files on the CIA agents that had been involved in Neal's arrest and the subsequent car crash. Now, a week later, the information had finally come through… a single file on Edgar Greeves, the leader of their operation and the man who had given Peter first aid at the scene of the accident.

As he kept reading, Peter felt his anger rising until he finally closed the document in frustration.

The file had more blacked out spaces than actual text. There was nothing on Greeves's skills or specialization, nothing on his current or past operations, _nothing_ that would tell Peter where he was stationed or whether he could be the man behind Neal's kidnapping. It was clear that the CIA had given him the barest minimum without actually revealing anything relevant, and by pretending to humor Peter's request, they had effectively ensured that he couldn't accuse them of not cooperating with the FBI.

Smart bastards.

He had tried to do things by the book and had gotten stonewalled at every turn. It was time to become a bit more creative.

He needed to know what he was up against.

Which was why later that evening, Peter found himself standing in front of his boss's apartment, even as a part of him wondered whether what he was about to do would cost him his job – or a friend.

"Peter," said Reese Hughes surprisedly after opening the door. "Is anything wrong? What brings you here?"

"Good evening, Reese." Peter cleared his throat. "I need to talk to you.…"

Hughes frowned. "Is this work related?"

Peter hesitated. "It's about the Caffrey case."

Wordlessly, Hughes pulled the door wide open and motioned for Peter to come in.

They settled in Hughes's kitchen, and Peter gratefully accepted a bottle of beer from his boss before sitting on one of the chairs. Then Hughes opened his own bottle and took the place opposite him.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Hughes finally spoke. "So, the Caffrey case. What did you want to talk about?"

Peter took a deep breath before looking into his boss's eyes. "There was a rumor a while back that you used to work with the NSA."

Hughes's eyebrows shot up. "I never knew that you believed in rumors."

"So they're not true?"

Hughes paused. "Supposed I spent two years working for the agency. How is that relevant?"

"I think – I _know_ – that the CIA is hiding something when it comes to Caffrey."

"I'd be surprised if that wasn't the case. The CIA has never been known for their sharing nature," said Hughes.

"What if it's more than that?" said Peter. "And why are they even interested in Neal?"

"Peter, listen–"

"Why did you leave the NSA, Reese?"

Peter almost winced at the seeming accusation in his own words. _That would be the moment when he committed career suicide._

Instead of looking offended, Reese tilted his head in question. "What exactly are you asking, Peter?" he asked curiously.

"There have always been conspiracy theories," said Peter carefully. "Most of them are crazy, but every once in a while, you have to wonder."

"And?" Reese's voice was completely neutral.

"A source told me that the CIA used our investigation into Caffrey to abduct him."

"Peter, that's–"

" – crazy, I know." Peter paused. "The CIA showed up at the scene just moments after we found Caffrey. For almost three weeks, I've been trying to get them to talk to me about the case, but they didn't even bother to contact me back in person. You were the one who taught me that when suspects hide something, it's usually because they're guilty."

"Maybe. The CIA is an intelligence agency. You going to explain how they went from 'secretive' to suspects?"

Peter hesitated. "I have a source."

"A source. Is it someone you trust?"

"Maybe."

Hughes gave him a grave look. "Peter…."

"The truth is, I don't know what's going on here, Reese." Peter hesitated. "All those rumors about these agencies – are any of them true?"

"Possibly," Hughes acknowledged. "On occasion, I didn't care for NSA methods. You have to understand though, I didn't leave because I didn't believe in what we were doing there.… You're my best agent, Peter, and Caffrey or no Caffrey, I know you're smart enough not to trifle with the CIA based on a hunch. Even so, be _very_ careful before you do something you can't take back."

"I understand, sir."

There was a moment of silence.

Peter bit his lip. "So what do I need to know?"

o - o - o

_Hurts._

Blinking slowly, Neal tried to get used to the harsh light. At last, he managed to keep his eyes open for long enough to check his surroundings. He was in the infirmary again, he was tied to the bed and his whole body was hurting from the electric shock that he had given himself a few hours before. Looking at his hands, Neal winced at the red blisters that marked the place where his fingers had touched the wires. But he had been expecting that when he had hatched the plan that had been both crazy and desperate.

Lifting as far as he could under the restraints, Neal glanced around to see whether he was alone. If there was anyone present, then he had electrocuted himself for nothing. But this time luck was with him, because apart from him, the infirmary was completely empty. Apparently the CIA believed the restraints would be enough to hold him.

_The only way out of his cell had been through the door, and the CIA had been kind enough to open it for him._

Well, time to take advantage of that.

He soon found a way to slip the restraints. With some effort, Neal pulled himself up and pushed his feet off the bed. His whole body felt like jelly, his hands were tingling and he was dizzy, but somehow he managed to stand up. He stared at the single camera in the upper corner of the room and quickly calculated the blind spots. If they were watching right now, then he would find out in a couple of minutes, but even Big Brother had to sleep every once in a while … right?

Time to get moving.

There was a doctor's coat hanging by the entrance to the infirmary. Neal was still wearing his slippers, but maybe he would get lucky and nobody would notice that…. He put on the lab coat and then moved to open the door.

'_Adams is a psychopath. He will kill you.'_

Trembling, Neal's hand stopped just an inch above the door handle. The mad dash of courage that had come over him after he had discovered Davis's deception had left as fast as it had appeared.

'_They'll tie you to the board again.'_

He had to do this. He had to.…

'_They'll torture you. They'll drown you again. They'll–'_

No, _think._

_He could not get caught again._

Taking a deep breath, Neal forced down his rising panic. In the corner of the infirmary, well within the camera's blind spot, was a working, turned-on computer. If he could hack into it, he might be able to figure out how to get out of here…. The computer was password protected. After some nine or ten random tries, Neal finally gave up. He shakily ran his hands through his hair. He needed an idea and he needed it yesterday.

He noticed several paperclips on the computer desk. Collecting a few, Neal quickly unbent them into a straight shape. The desk had several drawers, all without locks except for the upper one. The lower three drawers held stack of papers, some syringes and needles, some bandages and a box of cotton. Moving on to the upper drawer, Neal pulled out his makeshift lock pick. He forced his hands to keep steady as he learned the lock before applying the right pressure–

The drawer opened. And inside – Neal quickly rummaged through the drawer before drawing in a sharp breath. _A cellphone! What he could do with that– _

Then his glee died away. Had the CIA left it here as bait? Could he take that risk? Could he _not_ take it?

Making a quick decision, Neal grabbed a pen and a random piece of paper and started drawing. Soon, he had a complicated, seemingly abstract picture. Once he finished, he took a photo of the drawing and sent it to a well-remembered number before crumbling the paper and burying it in the nearby trash can. He was reasonably certain that the program Sally had installed in Mozzie's phone would stop the CIA from tracking down his message at that end.

'_Captured/compromised. __**Old identities burned!**__ They're still looking for you.'_

Sending the message, Neal allowed himself a grim smile. When he and Moz had developed these codes as kids during their "spy games", he had never known how useful they would become one day.

He was putting the phone back into the drawer when it started ringing. For a moment, Neal felt torn. Then he declined the call, erased the history of outgoing messages and incoming calls and stuck the cell back into the drawer. He waited for a minute and then breathed out in relief when Mozzie didn't try again.

Neal hurriedly relocked the drawer with the paperclips before burying the paperclips in the trash can. It had been maybe ten minutes since he had woken up and he was still no closer to finding a way out. His heart pounding, he indecisively stared at the door. _If they caught him– _

He had to risk it.

With a shaking hand, he opened the infirmary door. He made it to the first corner before he ran into Greeves and Adams.

"And where do you think you're going, Caffrey?" asked Greeves flatly.

Neal froze.

"I– n-nowhere. I–"

"I see you're back on your feet. Good. We have plans for today."

"Plans?! What plans?!"

"Oh, we can't spoil the surprise," said Adams with a chuckle. "Now move before I make you."

Obeying the agent's orders, Neal hated himself for his hesitation and cowardice.

_He should have escaped when he had the chance. _

o - o - o

Once again, Peter found himself in his living room with Paul Handerson, aka "Mozzie", but this time, El was absent and couldn't play mediator. If not for their shared concern for Neal, Peter suspected that their awkward conversation would have ended in a fiasco just minutes after he had invited Mozzie in his house. Even now, the tension between them was almost palpable, and Peter wondered why he had thought that this was such a good idea.

"They have him. I don't know where, but I know they're holding him somewhere.… Something's _wrong_, Suit – Peter. He should have escaped by now – he always does. I can't let them hurt him because of me."

Peter nodded. "I agree."

Mozzie's eyes widened. "You _do?"_

"Something's going on, and Neal is right in the middle of it. I'm going to find out exactly who's behind this, and once I do, they're going to be sorry."

"_Good."_

Mozzie's words sounded sincere, and yet.…

'_Are you behind this?'_ wondered Peter as he stared at Mozzie who was once again occupying his couch. By now, he was mostly inclined to believe his strange guest … but Hughes had been right in reminding him to approach this with skepticism. _'Be absolutely sure this is what you want before you risk getting burned over Caffrey.'_

"I've been trying to find where they're holding him," continued Mozzie obliviously.

"And? You got something?"

"Nada. Nothing yet." Mozzie paused before pulling out a sketchbook and a pen. "Look, if you can't do anything track Neal's message…."

Peter shook his head. "If it's as heavily encrypted as you said, I'd have to take it to the specialists in Cybercrime. I can't do that without rising red flags."

Mozzie sighed. "Well, here goes that. Anyway, my source placed Neal's message within a five hundred miles radius from New York, so I've been checking for rumors about military bases, abandoned facilities or map anomalies in that area. So far, I have twenty-eight possible locations, but there's nothing that would suggest that any of them really belong to the CIA. And of course, that's supposing we're right and they're holding Neal somewhere close. They could have moved him to the other side of the country _or_ even to a different continent."

"This is getting nowhere," said Peter in frustration.

"Not _nowhere_…." Mozzie hesitated. "It's taking too long. Can you check my list with FBI resources?"

Peter shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. Besides, you were worried about raising suspicion…."

"I know! … But we _have_ to do _something_."

Peter stopped himself from snapping that Mozzie had already said that four times before.

"Do you drink beer?" he asked suddenly.

Mozzie frowned. "Actually, I'm more of a wine person–"

"Not tonight. I'll get us something to drink." Rising from his armchair, Peter left Mozzie in the living room and went to the kitchen. He made a show of grabbing two bottles, an opener and some glasses. In fact, he just needed a moment to be alone and think.

In two days, it would be three weeks since Neal's disappearance. However, instead of getting closer to finding him, they were going in circles. Their search for the CIA base was getting them nowhere.

_They were going about this the wrong way._

Just barely, Peter managed to contain the rush of excitement before he returned to the living room. "We need to get the CIA to come to us."

Mozzie frowned. "What do you mean?"

Peter sat down. "I need you to tell me about your friendship with Neal."

"What? I mean, what then?"

Peter smiled. "Then, I'll call the CIA and tell them that Neal Caffrey has an associate by the name of Paul Handerson."

Mozzie stiffened. "You cannot be serious."

With a small smile, Peter launched into an explanation of his plan.

o - o - o

There was a room right next to the infirmary that Neal had never visited before.

"Greeves doesn't think you're broken enough."

"Davis."

"Neal."

Greeves and Adams had left a few minutes ago. When the door opened to reveal Davis, Neal had half expected him to continue the charade from before. Instead, Davis's charming mask was replaced by a demeanor of calm ruthlessness that scared Neal more than Adams and Greeves combined.

Davis shook his head. "Your actions in the infirmary don't even _qualify_ as an escape attempt. For someone who evaded half the world's police agencies, that was really pitiful. Why didn't you call Mozzie, Neal?"

"I knew you might be watching."

"Broken, but still smart. Good." Davis paused. "Greeves is wrong. We could keep torturing you for a few more days, but you're too loyal to your friend. We'll be just wasting out time and by the time you finally talked, the information wouldn't be relevant anyway."

Despite himself, Neal smiled. "Really? That sounds like you find yourself in a tight spot."

"On the contrary," answered Davis lightly. "See, after Paul Handerson invented a way to slowly rebuild the human brain, we have improved and expanded his research."

"You found new ways to hurt people through their brain."

"So Handerson confided in you after all?" Davis shook his head. "You're correct that we can do that, but ultimately pain is just a tool. We would also like to develop a way for a quick and effective interrogation, but what we really want is the capability to remold and reshape a human mind."

"That's sci-fi. You're crazy."

Davis smiled. "Well, we've done some tests, but we've mostly been working with homeless people and those from the bottom of society. If we're going to be using this methodology against enemy spies, we need to be absolutely sure that it works. Really, it's a stroke of luck that we have you."

"What…."

Davis opened the door again and two doctors stepped in. "Today, you're going to become a new test subject for our experiments."

Not a chance in hell.

But even as Neal tried to launch himself at Davis, he knew that his effort would be in vain.

_He really should have escaped while he had the chance.…_

o - o - o

That night, back at his place, Mozzie had to admit that the last time, he had severely underestimated Peter Burke. He was beginning to see why Neal had told him to trust this man.

Firstly, Peter was turning out to be far more inventive that Mozzie had initially thought. However, it was his calm confidence and his determination to find out the truth that finally won over Mozzie's respect. Still, that didn't mean that he was going to follow him blindly. Peter's plan was good – with a bit of luck, it might even work – but Mozzie had a few ideas of his own, and he would not stay sitting by the sidelines.

He had to call June and discuss the situation with her. And then it was time to visit Sally again and hope that she didn't skin him alive. He had a long night ahead of him.

Taking a deep breath, Mozzie dialed June's number and waited for her to pick up.

o - o - o


	7. Part VI

**PART VI**

Although Peter was confident in his plan, he was aware that there were too many variables to predict an exact outcome. Given that the CIA was involved, he knew better than to go in without backup.

"You called, boss?" asked Diana when she entered his office.

Peter gave her a nod. "Diana. Shut the door, please."

Closing the door, Diana picked up a chair and sat down opposite Peter. "It's about Caffrey, isn't it?"

Peter gaped at her. "Have I really become that predictable?"

"You have a face when it comes to him," said Diana with a smile. "What's going on, then?"

Peter took a deep breath. "I'm going to call Agent Greeves again."

"I thought they weren't taking your calls. What makes you think he'll talk to you now?"

"That's right, they've always had someone run interference. But not anymore." Peter paused. "I'm going to tell them that I discovered Neal has an accomplice named Paul Handerson."

Diana whistled. "That should get their attention – at least provided that 'Paul' isn't lying."

"Precisely. I want you to be there when I call them and listen with me. I need a second opinion on their reaction."

"You're killing two birds with one stone," said Diana in realization. "If Handerson is lying–"

"Then we'll know, and Handerson's probably covering for Neal, in which case we'll arrest him for obstruction of justice," said Peter grimly. "But if he's telling the truth, this should be enough to get us a meeting with the CIA. If we play this right, we'll then get some grounds for launching a proper investigation."

Diana nodded. "It's a good plan."

"If Mozzie's right, by the time we get something, it might be too late." _If the CIA had Neal.…_

"Peter. You're doing all you can."

"What if that's not enough?"

"It will be…. Make the call, boss."

For a moment, Peter just stared into her eyes. Then he took out his phone, put it on speaker and dialed Greeves's number. "This is Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI. I need to talk to Agent Greeves."

"_Mr. Burke–"_

"Agent."

"Agent_ Burke, Agent Greeves is very busy at the moment."_

"I understand. Just tell him that I wanted him to know that I identified one of Neal Caffrey's accomplices as a scientist by the name of Paul Handerson."

A pause. _"I'll speak to him right away."_

Peter exchanged a glance with Diana. It looked like they were going to see some results.

o - o - o

"So, you ready?"

Mozzie swallowed. "No…. Yes. I guess. As ready as I'm likely to be."

Sally shook her head. "Given that you skipped on me, I think I should be enjoying this more."

"I told you, I just didn't want to–"

"You used me, Mozzie. I said I was going to help, but that doesn't mean I'm okay with you leaving in the middle of the day without even a word of goodbye."

_Ouch._

Mozzie had known that Sally would be pissed off that he had just taken off without talking to her, but he should have realized that she would be genuinely hurt by his actions. He had screwed up.

"I'm sorry, Sally. I–"

She shook her head. "This isn't the time, Moz."

"Right." Neal needed them. Nothing else mattered right now. He cleared his throat. "So, how do I look?"

Scrunching her nose, Sally gave him a scrutinizing look. "Different. Kind of official … in a stick-in-the-mud way."

"Great," said Mozzie dryly. "So, if this goes south–"

" – I'm not coming to bail you out," finished Sally.

"Great. Okay, let's do this."

"Wait! We forgot the photo," exclaimed Sally suddenly.

"Shit. You're right." With a small sigh, he took off his coat and placed it against the trunk of a nearby car.

He had already made a couple of ID photos before, but they needed a bigger picture for the official site. Even so, Mozzie really didn't relish doing this inside the FBI garages.

"Could you turn around?" he asked Sally. "I need to change the shirt and tie.…"

"Why? It's not like I haven't seen you before," said Sally sweetly.

"Sally, please, it's freezing here. Can you keep watch?"

She sighed. "Fine."

"Something tells me you could have easily doctored this on your computer," said Mozzie while he was unbuttoning his shirt with nervous fingers.

"Maybe. What would be the fun in that?"

Mozzie wanted to be upset, but the impulse died when he saw the badly hidden fear behind Sally's callous expression. She helped him fix his tie, then placed him in front of a white wall just a few feet away from her bicycle and rummaged in her bag for a while before taking out her camera.

"Okay, done," said Sally after taking a few photos of Mozzie's face and putting her camera away. "So, how much time do we have? Where's Burke and Berrigan?"

"Still inside," replied Mozzie while he quickly changed back to his original clothes. "The Suit is still doing something at his computer. They should be leaving soon though."

"Okay," said Sally and ran a quick hand through her hair. "So, that's Burke's car, then."

Mozzie swallowed. "And you're sure that the cameras…."

Sally patted her smart phone. "All taken care of."

Well, that was something at least. "For the record, I want it noted that this is a _truly_ horrible idea…."

"It was your idea," Sally reminded him.

"I know!" Mozzie exclaimed. "That doesn't mean it's not horrible."

Before he lost his nerve, he pulled out an exquisite set of lock picks, courtesy of June (_"Byron used to carry these around everywhere during the good old days"_) and experimentally took out two of them.

"I can't believe we're breaking into a fed's car," said Sally.

"_Shhhh! _Damn it, Sally!"

With shaking hands, Mozzie crouched down and inserted the lock picks into the lock of the trunk.

"What if they take Berrigan's car?"

"They won't!" Mozzie hissed back.

"But what if–"

"I need to concentrate, okay?"

It was not working. Mozzie's hands were sweaty and trembling. He kept constantly glancing over his shoulder, expecting armed FBI agents to suddenly emerge from nowhere and arrest him to the sound of police sirens.

He used to live on the streets, for Christ's sake! He had easily picked the training locks that Neal had given him at the hotel a few weeks ago, and now Peter was talking to Berrigan about something, and _why was this not working– _

"Let me see it," said Sally suddenly.

Mozzie snapped. "If you think you can do a better job–"

She pushed away the lock pick set he tried to thrust into her hands. Instead, she gave the trunk a long look before bending slightly and pushing the opening button. She then pulled up, nearly effortlessly opening the trunk while Mozzie's jaw dropped. "It's not locked."

"Oh."

_He should have known that himself._

Mozzie cleared his throat. "I didn't–"

"Get in, Mozzie."

She squeezed his hand as he squeezed himself into the trunk. Once he was sitting inside, Mozzie put on a pair of gloves before curling on the bottom of trunk. They gave each other a long look. "Sally–"

"Be safe, okay?"

Mozzie gulped. "Close it, please."

'_Neal, I'm coming.'_

Then Sally smashed the door down and Mozzie's world plunged into darkness.

o - o - o

As it turned out, Peter's bluff had worked perfectly. Within minutes of his call, he had Greeves on the phone despite all of their previous claims that the agent wasn't available. What was more, before Peter even had the chance to suggest talking face to face, Greeves had already proposed a meeting – on the afternoon of the same day, on the side of an old road in the middle of nowhere, two hours away from New York City.

Peter and Diana exchanged a glance. The CIA was spooked all right. It looked like Mozzie's information might have been truthful after all.

They spent the morning and early afternoon working on other cases, before Peter went to inform Hughes that he and Diana were going to check a lead on the Caffrey case. Hughes gave him a grave nod and told them to be careful, not even bothering with voicing his objections. At three o'clock in the afternoon, Diana and Peter went to Peter's car. While Peter started the Taurus, Diana typed in the coordinates. They would be there in a bit under three hours.

Almost running over a cycler on their way out of the garage, Peter swore. He hoped this wasn't some sort of premonition about how their trip was going to go.

"I spoke to Jones," said Diana into the silence as Peter drove through the streets of New York.

"Uh-huh?"

"I told him to cancel his plans for tonight, just in case. I also called a family friend and our lawyer to be on call. I thought it might be good to take some precautions in case things turned ugly. I'm sorry if I overstepped my boundaries."

"What?" Peter looked at her in surprise. "Diana…."

"We both know this isn't just an ordinary case, Peter," said Diana gravely.

Peter clenched the wheel a bit more tightly. "No, you're right, it's not…. Next time, talk to me first."

"Sure thing, boss."

"Good."

Despite his surprise, Peter didn't begrudge Diana her initiative. If things went sideways, it would be good to have some additional backup. And even though it'd been just a few months since Diana had come back from DC, she had been a full-fledged agent for years and Peter trusted her judgment.

He knew he could trust her to have his back.

For the next twenty minutes, they drove mostly in silence.

"So, what are you and Christie planning for the holiday?" asked Peter.

Diana smiled. "Just some quiet time together, in our apartment…. I still don't have a present for her. Ever since she popped the question, everything I come up with feels so–"

"Ordinary?" Peter suggested.

"Yeah."

"You'll figure it out," said Peter confidently.

"What about you, boss? Any special plans?"

Peter smiled. "No, I guess it's the same as you, just some quiet time together…. And the best thing is, El's parents are visiting her sister in Canada, so it will be just the two of us, the whole time–"

"No fathers-in-law trying to psychoanalyze you?"

Peter cleared his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't, Peter," said Diana teasingly.

Peter blushed lightly, though deep down, he truly was glad that he wouldn't have to meet Alan Mitchell for another few months. Elizabeth's father might be a good man, but his stare always gave Peter the creeps. He very much preferred to keep his head to himself.

"So, have you talked to Elizabeth about this 'road trip'?" asked Diana out of blue.

"No, I…." Peter sighed. "Well, she knows the basics, but I didn't want her to worry unnecessarily. I should probably call her to say that I'll be late tonight though…."

"I haven't told Christie yet either," Diana confessed. "She really freaked out after the shooting in the Ponder case…. It's hard sometimes, isn't it?"

"No kidding," murmured Peter. "Enough about that. Tell me. How does it feel to be engaged?"

They spent the next forty minutes talking about their loved ones and comparing notes on relationship difficulties, until the conversation ran dry and they once again plunged into silence.

"What do you think we'll find there once we meet them?" asked Diana a few moments later.

Peter hesitated. "After what Mozzie told me last night, I checked his story. I'm pretty sure he really is Neal's friend just like he says."

"So you do trust his version of the events?"

Peter pressed his lips together. "He ran away from his job, he used multiple aliases and he broke into my house. Those aren't the actions of an innocent man." Then again, those actions could be chalked to Mozzie's paranoia, which was actually justified if he was telling the truth. And for better or worse, he was friends with Neal, both by his own admission and by the evidence Peter had found. "Until I hear a better version, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"I was right. This is as far from ordinary as it can get."

Peter gave her a grim, tense smile before he focused on the road again.

They should arrive at their destination in about fifty minutes.

o - o - o

They arrived at the meeting point ten minutes before the agreed time.

"It really is in the middle of nowhere, isn't it?" said Diana after she climbed out of the car and slammed the door shut.

Looking around them, Peter had to concede she was right.

Their road had branched away from the highway to lead them into the middle of fields, with a small forest nearby. The brown ground around them was hard and frozen, covered by a thin layer of frost and snow. Pulling his coat closer, Peter looked around and stepped into the middle of the road. He didn't see anything yet.

Bam.

"What the–"

Peter and Diana exchanged a look.

Bam. BAM!

"It's coming from the trunk," said Diana in disbelief.

Suddenly, Peter's phone started ringing. Almost automatically, he picked it up. "Hello?"

"_Would you open your goddamn trunk, Suit?"_

"What…. _Mozzie?!"_

"_Congratulations on your detective skills. By the way, you should fix your release latch. Now would you open the trunk, please?"_

Still in a daze, Peter took a step forward and opened the trunk of his car.

There was a man. In his car. In his _trunk_.

The man turned off a small flashlight and tried to wriggle into a sitting position. "Okay, for the record, this is a really horrible way of traveling. Hi, Peter."

Peter blinked before doing a double take. His passenger had ginger, visibly balding hair, light brown eyes with some sort of pigmentation defect in the left iris, and broad shoulders – but his expression and voice were very familiar. "Mozzie?"

"No, the Queen of Sheba," retorted Mozzie when he'd finally gotten on his knees. "Hello. You must be Agent Berrigan. So pleased to meet you!"

"Hi, Mozzie," said Diana dryly.

Peter finally managed to recover from his shock. "Mozzie! What the _**hell**_ are you doing here?!"

"Calm down, I'll tell you. Could you _please_ help me out of the trunk first?"

"Not until I get some answers," Peter barked angrily. "How did you plan this? No, scratch that. You broke into my car–"

"_Yes_, I hid in the trunk! Yes, I followed you to your meeting with the CIA, and by the way, if you hadn't been so adamant before that you were going alone–"

"Oh no, you're not putting that on me. We agreed that I'm a trained professional. _You_ on the other hand _by your own words_ are just a scientist wanted by the CIA. We had a plan–"

"Actually, _you_ had a plan," interrupted Mozzie with infuriating calm. "I never agreed to it. Besides, we didn't know the CIA would be meeting us here. Did you really think I'd stay away when Neal's life is on the line?"

"You're going to screw up the operation," said Peter with quiet fury. "What do you think will happen if the CIA sees you?"

"Nothing. They're not going to recognize me."

"_**Damn it, Mozzie!" **_

Even Diana almost jumped at Peter's outburst. But Peter had a hard time controlling his temper.

"You're putting us all at risk. You're putting _Neal_ at risk."

Mozzie climbed out of the car and straightened himself out. "You don't understand, Suit–"

"We need to get him out of here," Diana spoke up suddenly.

Peter nodded. "Right."

"And how do you plan to do that?" asked Mozzie sarcastically. "The CIA will be here any minute. I checked this place on Google maps. There's nowhere to hide around here…."

"How did you even know about this meeting?" asked Peter.

"Ah. That. Well…." Mozzie blushed. "Remember when I visited you yesterday? You left your jacket over the couch. I kind of may have put a bug there…."

"_**WHAT?!"**_

"Wait, you listened to us talking?!"

"….It's on the inside of your collar." Mozzie removed the receiver from his own ear and placed it into Peter's palm. "You might want to take it off before the CIA gets here–"

"**Damn it!"**

Almost ripping his coat open, Peter quickly checked the lapel of his suit jacket – and of course, it was right there; a tiny flat oval piece of metal hiding on the left side of its neckline. He tore it out and then threw it on the ground before smashing it with his heel.

"Any other way you've been spying on us?" asked Diana with barely suppressed anger.

Mozzie shook his head. "No, I swear–"

"It doesn't matter," said Peter. "I don't care what you were thinking, Handerson. You're not coming with us to the meeting."

"You can't stop me from going! You have to understand–"

"I don't have to do anything. You're staying here. I'll stick you back in the trunk if I have to."

"You'd let me freeze and suffocate to prove a point?" exclaimed Mozzie. "Great job, Suit!"

"You managed just fine before," barked Peter harshly. "How can you think even for a minute that they won't recognize you through that flimsy disguise?"

"They won't if you corroborate my story," replied Mozzie.

"What could you possibly–"

"Former FBI Agent Jack Franklin, at your service. Wait … here we go." Reaching into his coat, Mozzie pulled out an ID with his altered appearance photo and the name Jack Franklin written under it.

Peter plucked the ID out of Mozzie's hand and turned it over. Had he not known it to be fake, he might have been fooled. "How did you get this? Did Neal make it? … You know this is fraud _and_ identity theft."

"Great, you can arrest me later. Look–"

"What do you know about Franklin?" asked Diana.

"Not much," said Mozzie with a shrug. "He's a former agent. I know he used to be on your team before mysteriously resigning a year ago, couldn't find out why. I figured he'd be a safe identity to assume."

Peter and Diana exchanged a look. "OPR discovered that Franklin was having an inappropriate relationship with his female CI – that's criminal informant," explained Diana. "Rather than breaking things off, he chose to leave the FBI."

"Oh."

"Right. As impressed as I am with your research and your newfound criminal skills, this still won't work," said Peter. "There are databases which have photographs, physical descriptions–"

"Boss." Diana's tense voice interrupted Peter's speech. "They're here."

Both Peter and Mozzie turned around to see where Diana was looking.

A black car with tinted windows was slowly approaching them on the dirt road.

"What about him?" asked Diana quietly.

Peter shook his head. "It's too late. They might have seen us already."

Mozzie cleared his throat. "So, are you going to sell me out now?"

Peter needed to think.

There was no way to tell whether Mozzie's disguise would fool the CIA. Even if it worked, the fact that the meeting was happening so far away from New York suggested that the CIA would probably take them to one of their bases. Which meant that Peter and Diana would essentially be helping Mozzie break into the CIA facility. Peter didn't even want to think of the consequences if they got caught. The CIA car was maybe a minute and half away, and Peter still had no tangible proof that Mozzie was telling the truth about his whole story.

"Peter…?" said Mozzie softly, his previous bravado replaced by raw, honest fear.

Peter considered the events of the past few weeks. He thought of Elizabeth, of Hughes's words, of Neal's charm and his desperate plea, of people that were being hurt if Mozzie was telling the truth, of being caught and losing his job or worse.

A decision began to form in his mind. However, he also had a responsibility to his team.

"Diana.…"

"Either way, I'm with you, boss."

Very well.

Peter took a deep breath before looking at Mozzie. "You better pray we find something to lead us to Neal. You'll tag along, stay quiet, and if you take _one_ step out of line I swear I'll arrest you when this is over…. Welcome aboard, 'Franklin'."

A moment of silence.

"Thanks, Peter," said Mozzie quietly.

"This is going to be interesting," said Diana with a tense smirk.

The CIA car was almost there. Staring forward, Peter subconsciously straightened his coat and checked his watch.

"Oh, by the way," said Mozzie suddenly, "former agent Franklin suffers from recurring asthma. I thought you should know that."

"Wait, what do you mean? What asthma?"

But before Peter could get an answer to his question, the arriving car already stopped. Wondering how many more surprises were still waiting for him, Peter hoped he hadn't just made a serious mistake.

o - o - o

"Agent Burke. I didn't know there would be company."

"Agent Greeves. Good afternoon."

Facing the CIA agents, Mozzie briefly flashed to a moment some eight years ago, with a younger Neal sitting on his couch, fooling with his hat and explaining the concept of making up identities. _'You can't fake it if you force it. Embrace it. It's still you, just … different. Stick as close to the truth as possible.'_

If Mozzie wasn't almost trembling with terror, he might actually appreciate the advice. Instead, he focused on keeping his back straight. He thought of the way he carried himself while supervising a class during a written exam, or the way he projected authority when facing a meeting with the financial department. He could do this.

Greeves's stare felt like it was burning right through him. "I already know Agent Berrigan, but who are you, Mr…?"

"Jack Franklin," supplied Peter when Mozzie's throat tightened. "He's a former member of the White Collar division."

He had to say something. "It's good to be in the field again," said Mozzie after miraculously finding his voice.

Greeves looked sharply at both Peter and Mozzie. "_Former_ member?"

"I left for personal reasons," said Mozzie.

Greeves frowned. "That's always a cover for another story."

"I trust Jack Franklin implicitly," inserted Peter fluently. "Now, if you stop questioning the members of my team, we could talk about why we're here?"

"Fine." Greeves made a pause. "There's a facility twenty minutes away by car. You'll have to be blindfolded during the ride."

"What?" exclaimed Peter.

Berrigan glared. "We took a two-hour journey coming here, and now you're going to play games with us?!"

"Agent Brett will drive your car," motioned Greeves to the other CIA person accompanying him. "You'll also have to surrender your phones. Of course, if you prefer to talk out here…."

"No, of course not," exclaimed Mozzie jovially, trying to hide his panic. He'd never find where they were holding Neal if the CIA didn't take them there. "Relax, everyone. Uh, I mean, look at this weather. Does anyone really want to stand around in this chill?"

Peter frowned. "Jack–"

"Is this how the CIA views cooperation?" asked Diana flatly. "Because it sure as hell seems like you've been doing your best to cut us out of this investigation."

"Diana–"

"No, boss. They flat out refused to share any information with us and ignored all your attempts to communicate with them until we came up with new intel. That's not how you treat an ally, and I'm done putting up with it."

"You're right," said Peter after a short pause. He looked back at Greeves. "We're done with this. Either show us some good will, or we will continue investigating this case on our own just like before. It's your choice, Greeves."

Greeves looked like he had swallowed a lemon. Mozzie had to admit that he was impressed. He tried to mirror Peter and Diana's postures and look determinedly imposing.

"You're aware that revealing the location of the base to anyone without authorization equals treason," said Greeves at last.

"You told us to drive all the way here from New York," Peter pointed out. "There were plenty of other possibilities if you had simply wanted to meet at a remote location. You planned on taking us to the facility; don't deny it."

Silence.

"A compromise, then," said Greeves at last. "You'll turn off your phones so the location can't be tracked later. I'll also drive with you and give you directions."

Peter and Diana exchanged a look. Mozzie was surprised when Peter turned to him. "What do you think, Franklin?"

Mozzie cleared his throat. "I think it's acceptable."

"I agree," said Peter. Berrigan just gave a nod.

"So it's agreed," said Greeves.

They were going to see the CIA base.

o - o - o

His disguise was the combined effort of June and Hale, while Sally had sworn that she had done her best with the online side of things, making Mozzie's alias as foolproof as possible. Yet despite all their effort, Mozzie had still half-expected to be recognized on the spot when the CIA agents saw him. Of course, it was entirely possible that they knew who he was and were just putting on an act, luring him into a false state of security until he willingly walked deep into their territory.

Would they let Neal go if they had him? Somehow, Mozzie doubted it. But he couldn't leave Neal in CIA's clutches anymore, even if chances of success were slim at best.

Riding in the trunk before had been horrible and terrifying, but the current situation was even more bizarre. He was sitting next to Agent Berrigan, whose loyalty was fully to the Suit and who would probably turn on him the moment Peter Burke said a word. In the front seat, Greeves continued telling Peter the directions, and even as Mozzie hid his emotions behind a blank mask, his fear was slowly being replaced by cold rage and determination. Was Greeves the mastermind behind "Project Lethe", the force that had stolen Mozzie's research and driven him out of his home, or was he just a foot soldier in the CIA conspiracy? Was he responsible for Neal's capture? Finally, there was Peter Burke himself. The agent was driving the car with an unreadable expression, and Mozzie couldn't help but wonder what Peter was getting out of this. Earlier, he had been eager and desperate enough to accept any kind of help, but he was enough of a realist to know that nobody would risk this much out of pure altruism. No, the Suit had to want something. If it was within his powers, Mozzie would give it to him, as long as they got Neal back to safety and away from the CIA.

Suddenly, the road took a turn, and then a clearing opened in front of them, revealing a flat building surrounded by a tall electric fence. As per Greeves' instructions, Peter drove them to a tall metal gate, which opened when Greeves stepped out of the car and swiped a card against it. Once they were inside, Peter parked the car in a free area next to several other vehicles. Mozzie's adrenaline spiked when he realized that they had successfully gotten inside the lion's den. Then the gate closed behind them with a loud creak, cutting off their only escape route.

Mozzie's throat tightened. He glanced at Peter and Diana, both of whom looked completely calm while they climbed out of the car. Reminding himself that this was about Neal, Mozzie tried to keep his breathing even. Even if he had wanted to back out now, he had no choice but to see this through.

Going through his pockets, Mozzie palmed a pill which he had hidden there earlier, and then quickly swallowed it when the others weren't watching him. Suppressing the trembling in his hand, he then opened the car door and joined the FBI and CIA agents.

The die was cast. Now he just had to hope that Peter and Berrigan were actually on his side.

o - o - o

As they entered the facility, Greeves had them patted down and walked them through a scanner. When the CIA agents asked Peter to take off his shoulder holster and his backup weapon, he felt almost naked. Even if Mozzie wasn't there as the proverbial wild card, he and Diana were essentially undercover with no proper backup. Therefore, Peter was incredibly relieved when he received both of his guns back just a few moments later. By the look on Diana's face, he was pretty sure that she felt the same way.

At last, Greeves seemed content with the results of the 'inspection'. He handed them three "Visitor" cards with their names printed on them. "Take these and follow me."

"So, where exactly are we going?" asked Peter curiously.

"There's a meeting room nearby–"

"_Fuck!"_

Greeves, Peter and Diana all stopped and turned around.

Mozzie was half-bent over, clutching at his chest. His breathing was short and his face was white and sweaty.

Diana frowned. "Franklin, are you all right?"

Mozzie wheezed. With one hand against his throat, his other hand was desperately searching for something in his pocket.

For a second, Peter didn't know what was happening. Then Mozzie's words came back to him. _Former agent Franklin suffers from recurring asthma._

"Damn it," he exclaimed just as Mozzie pulled out his inhaler. He took it out of Mozzie's trembling fingers, removed the cap and shook it. _And it was a good thing he knew what to do from one of El's nieces. _"Let me help."

Greeves looked at them sharply. "Burke…?"

"Franklin's an asthmatic," Diana lied fluently while Peter helped Mozzie take the first breath from the inhaler. "When his condition worsened, it was one of the reasons why he left the FBI."

"I _hate_ this," gasped Mozzie in between short breaths.

"Hey, deep breaths. Settle down," said Peter gently, even as his brain was working feverishly. What the hell was Mozzie doing? Was it a real asthma attack? Was it an act? _Damn it! _This wouldn't be happening if he hadn't decided to do his own thing and join them at the last moment! Was Mozzie going off script again, or did he have a genuine medical condition? Even if it was an act, Peter couldn't break Mozzie's cover now.

He swallowed down his anger and projected concern that was only half faked. "Is there some place where he could sit down? Do you have an infirmary around here?"

Greeves frowned. "I don't think–"

Mozzie dissolved into another coughing fit.

"The infirmary!" barked Diana. "Which way is it, Greeves?"

"All right!" exclaimed Greeves before frowning again. "Agent Brett can take him there…."

"I'm coming with you. I'm not leaving a member of my team," snapped Peter, still trying to keep Mozzie from keeling over.

"Don't," coughed Mozzie. "Go on, Peter…. I'll be fine…."

"Jack, you're barely standing," protested Peter.

"You act as if I was dying." Mozzie took another breath from the inhaler before speaking again. "Forget about me. I just need to sit down for a while…."

Peter frowned. "I don't like this. Are you _sure–"_

"Just go, focus on the case," wheezed Mozzie again.

Peter and Diana exchanged an uncertain look.

Then Peter looked into Mozzie's eyes, and suddenly he knew.

The other man had some sort of a plan. Unfortunately, since Mozzie hadn't confided in him, there was no way to tell if it was good or if it was going to be a complete disaster. Hell, Peter wasn't even completely sure what Mozzie's objective was–

Neal. Of course this was about Neal. The whole picture suddenly revealed itself so clearly, Peter wondered how he hadn't seen it sooner.

Their plan had been to go in to gather evidence. Since Peter and Diana's hands were tied, Mozzie was hoping to get separated from them and from the CIA to look for information on his own. Peter was now almost certain that the scientist was somehow faking his symptoms. Unless….

The CIA only had a handful of facilities in the whole United States. On the off-chance that Neal was actually being held here, they'd need to explore the base more closely … which was not going to happen while they had the CIA agents looking over their shoulders. Suddenly Greeves's unwillingness to cooperate looked far more ominous than before.

They'd have him in a holding cell of some sort…. Unless they had hurt him. Unless….

Peter's breath caught in his throat as the final piece finally fell in place. If Mozzie's hunch was correct….

Was it even wise to split up? But they might not get another opportunity.

_Okay._

Peter squeezed Mozzie's arm. "Okay Jack, but I won't rest unless I'm sure you won't get worse again." He glanced at Greeves. "Could someone take him to the infirmary, just in case? I'd really feel calmer if someone checked him over…."

Greeves and Brett exchanged a look. "I'll take him there," said Brett at last.

Mozzie breathed another puff from his inhaler before allowing the CIA agent to support him. Then Peter, Diana and Greeves watched them hobble in another direction before they disappeared around the corner. Then Greeves looked at Peter. "Out of curiosity, why did you even bring Franklin with you?"

"It's the Christmas season," said Diana. "We're understaffed."

"Jack Franklin was a good agent . It's a damn shame that he had to leave the FBI," said Peter with a bit of bitterness. "He still consults with us from time to time, and he knows the Caffrey case just as well as the rest of my team."

"I understand."

Normally, Peter would have bristled at Greeves's derisive tone, but now he had more important things to deal with.

For better or worse, Mozzie was now on his own to do whatever was needed. It was up to Peter and Diana to buy him enough time.

Peter cleared his throat. "So, is there a place where we can talk?"

o - o - o

After learning that Peter and Diana would be meeting with the CIA, Mozzie had had a little under seven hours to plan the finer details of the whole encounter. Though he had been considering the eventuality for a while, it had still been a lot of work to do on such a tight schedule. Luckily, when he decided to fake the asthma attack, he only had to think of the university's pharmacology lessons before choosing the right drug for the job. Sometimes it really paid to have an eidetic memory.

By the time he and his CIA chaperone arrived at the infirmary, Mozzie was pale, tired and wheezing, but still possessing his full mental capacity. A doctor glanced at them before raising his eyebrows in surprise. "Agent Brett. Who's your companion…? Is that an allergic reaction?"

"Asthma attack," replied the agent stiffly. "And he's one of the FBI visitors."

"I see….. Sit him down," said the doctor.

They guided Mozzie to a bed.

"Let's get him some oxygen," said the doctor while Mozzie's eyes subtly scanned their surroundings. "How long has he been like this?"

"About ten minutes," replied Mozzie hoarsely before suffering another coughing fit.

"Okay. What's your regular medication, sir?" asked the doctor. He had Mozzie take another breath from his inhaler before giving him an oxygen mask. Slowly, Mozzie began telling the doc all his fake medical history.

When the doctor started questioning Mozzie about possible contraindication for corticosteroids, the CIA agent's patience finally ran out. "Do I have to be here for this?" asked Brett in obvious boredom.

The doctor just shook his head. "No, I got this."

"Wonderful. Call me when you're done." With barely hidden disgust, Brett gave Mozzie one last glance before walking out and closing the door behind himself.

"All right, let me set up the IV," said the doctor after they become alone. He stood up from the chair next to Mozzie's bed and went to a nearby table with a computer. As the man turned around and opened one of the lower drawers, Mozzie knew he wouldn't get a better opportunity.

Still holding the breathing mask, he quietly pulled out a regular-looking pen from his pocket. Then he aimed the pen at the doctor, silently recited a quick prayer and pressed the top.

"Huh."

The tiny hidden dart flew five meters across the room before hitting the doc in the neck just as he started to turn around. The doctor didn't even realize what had happened as he tumbled to the ground, unconscious. Even if he had practiced this regularly, Mozzie couldn't have landed a better shot.

Staring at the body on the ground, Mozzie shook his head in awe. He had always loved weird gadgets and thingies, but honestly he had never expected them to work.

"This is _so cool!"_

He took one more breath from the oxygen mask before standing up and going to check on the doctor. Once he was certain the man was deeply asleep, Mozzie pulled out the dart and buried it in the nearby trash can.

Still having trouble breathing, he rummaged through several drawers before finding an EpiPen. He quickly gave himself the shot and then waited for a few moments until his breathing got back to normal. Time to get to work.

Although the CIA had searched them, Mozzie had been able to sneak in several interesting toys. The dart shooting pen was perhaps the most impressive, but there were other items that would come in handy – and that would have definitely raised strong suspicions had the CIA discovered them for what they really were.

First, Mozzie had to take care of the live feed that was watching the infirmary. It was a huge stroke of luck that the computer area wasn't covered by the camera, which meant that nobody had seen him take out the doctor or what he was about to do now. He removed his cufflinks and then put them together, creating a working flash drive. He placed it in the computer, which was already turned on … and then turned his attention to his immediate surroundings while he waited for Sally's virus to do its magic.

With the virtual site firmly in hands of his hacker friend, Mozzie focused on the physical reality. He knew he didn't have much time – the sedating serum he had used on the doctor would work for an hour at most, but Brett might return even sooner than that. Pulling out a lock pick disguised as a tie clip, Mozzie quickly opened the drawer of the table, finding a phone, some pens and –

There was a file.

Quickly opening it, Mozzie started scanning through the information. When he realized what he was holding, he drew in a sharp breath and his hands began shaking.

_Subject: 894NC _

_Description: Caucasian male (31), 5 ft 11¾ in, 172 lb. In good physical shape, no known medical conditions_

_Project results overview:_

_Sessions 1-3 – Subject has been resistant to imprinting techniques. Despite previous use of interrogation techniques, subject has fought against direct suggestions. _

_Sessions 4-5 – Using additional stimulation of brain's pain centers, subject experienced severe confusion and disconnection from reality. Subject resisted questioning and imprinting techniques. Repeated application of pain stimuli led to severe seizures. Current course of action had been temporarily abandoned._

_Session 6-7 – Subject slowly losing resistance to imprinting, not very secure in his identity. Subtle misdirection is more efficient than brute force._

_Session 8 – Subject blames himself for betraying his friend, very defensive of his friend. Subject's sense of guilt makes him significantly more susceptible to subtle influence. _

Mercifully, the so-called overview ended there. The file then continued on in a more in-depth description, but Mozzie had had enough. He shut the file and tried to stop himself from puking.

He had proof. It wasn't much, but it was something tangible. If he could take it away with him–

_He'd never get past the scanner and pat down._

Mozzie shook his head. Evidence could wait. Right now, his first priority had to be Neal.

He thought he had recognized a stethoscope in the background of the photo Neal had sent him; therefore, had bet on Neal being held near the infirmary. In case he was wrong, Sally was furiously searching through the CIA database, but Mozzie knew getting around the base would be extremely difficult.

He glanced back at the computer. It looked like Sally had already taken control from afar. For a moment, a chat window had appeared on the screen. Sally informed him that she had put the camera signal in the infirmary and the surrounding rooms on a loop.

Mozzie leaned forward and began typing. _'Can you get me the camera view from the surrounding rooms?'_

For a few moments, there was no answer. Then the screen blinked before suddenly nine small rectangles appeared on it, each showing the view from a particular camera.

Mozzie's breath got caught in his throat when he recognized the small figure in the middle right rectangle. _Neal._

"Where? Sally, where is that?" Oh right, she couldn't hear him.

Mozzie pulled the keyboard closer. _'Where is middle-right?'_ He pressed Enter.

To his dismay, nothing happened.

Mozzie tried typing the message again and then clicked uselessly on the mouse, but he could only watch the mini-screens with the various camera views. It soon became clear that he had lost control over the computer. _Damn it!_

Never mind. Neal had to be somewhere near, so Mozzie was going to find him.

With Sally poking around the system and searching though the CIA database, Mozzie plucked out his flash drive and rearranged his "cufflinks" before glancing around. He was about to leave when he paused. He had already seen the closet on the other side of the room … except if it was just a closet, then why was there a reader for a chip card instead of a common lock?

Incredulously, Mozzie approached the closet. Could it really be that simple…?

The door was closed. Swallowing his unease, Mozzie walked back to the doctor's body on the ground and quickly searched him before finding his ID card. Pulling it off his neck, Mozzie then returned to the closet and pressed the card against the reader. The door opened with an almost inaudible croak.

Mozzie stepped inside and then froze. "Neal…?"

o - o - o

_They had to stall._

When Peter had planned the meeting, he had thought that he would be gathering information on the CIA. He'd considered strategies and approaches, made plans in order to find evidence which would allow him to open a full-scale investigation – and then Mozzie had interfered. Now Peter was in a meeting room with Diana and three CIA agents, desperately trying to buy Mozzie some time and silently praying that they didn't get caught.

"I first realized the connection between Caffrey and Handerson when I re-read Neal's prison records," Peter explained. "For some unknown reason, Handerson had made repeated visits to Caffrey. I think it's reasonable to assume that they had been working together even before Caffrey's initial arrest…."

"It looks like Handerson has been using the alias "Mozzie Haversham" for quite a few months. We tied him back to an old heist," said Diana. "Caffrey might have been the front man with Paul Handerson pulling the strings."

"This is deeply interesting," said Greeves with a serious expression. "And you're saying Handerson is a biologist?"

"Yes, a university teacher. Why?"

Greeves exchanged a deeply troubled look with the other CIA agents. "There've been rumors about a new biological weapon secretly being developed by a group of our own scientists. If this Handerson is somehow involved…."

Their concern looked so real that Peter almost, _almost_ believed them. Next to him, Diana stiffened imperceptibly.

But then Peter remembered the events of the past few weeks, and it made no sense.

_He couldn't let them know that he knew._

Mozzie might have been getting evidence and looking for Neal, but Peter had to make sure that they had an escape route available so that they were able to get off the base when they were done. He began retelling another long story, this time about Neal's history and his general unwillingness to work with a partner.

"So, where do you think this 'Paul Handerson' could be hiding?" asked Greeves at last.

Peter shook his head. "No idea. No idea at all."

This time, he actually saw the glimpse of irritation on Greeves's face.

Peter struggled to hide his growing contempt for the agent. "My turn. What do you know about Neal Caffrey?"

o - o - o

"Neal…?"

The first glance on his friend's still form was a stab to the heart. Taking a shaky breath, Mozzie stepped closed, forcing down feelings of revulsion and regret.

Neal was lying on a bed, his eyes closed, looking like he was asleep. However, the seemingly peaceful image was shattered by the restraints tying him to the bed, by the cannula in his arm, but most of all by Neal's deeply haunted expression that not even sleep could take away.

As in a trance, Mozzie walked closer and picked up one of Neal's lifeless hands. _If he hadn't developed the procedure, hadn't called Neal.… _

"No, I'm not doing this." He could lay blame later. For now, he had get them out of there.

Mozzie gently shook Neal's shoulder. "Neal? Neal, wake up."

Nothing.

"Neal!"

Still no answer.

Not knowing what had been done to his friend but knowing there was no time to waste, Mozzie pulled away a bit of Neal's sleeve and pinched him strongly on the inner side of his forearm.

"Ouch!"

Trying to rise, Neal was pulled back by the straps around his chest. Cursing himself, Mozzie immediately began to remove the restraints. "Sorry about that," he said as his fingers fumbled with the strap buckles. Finally, he helped Neal sit up. "Neal, I thought – I'm so glad that…. I came to get you out of here. I'm so, so sorry it took me this long…."

Mozzie gave Neal a painful grin, but the smile froze on his lips. Looking around, Neal's eyes were unfocused, as if he didn't even know where he was.

Mozzie ignored the lump in his throat. "Hey, Neal…. Look at me. It's me, Paul … Mozzie. I came here for you, okay? Neal–"

Neal jerked, then stared straight into Mozzie's eyes. For a moment, there was silence. "Moz…?" whispered Neal at last.

"Thank God." Mozzie blinked away his tears, then lost control and pulled Neal in a rough hug. "Thank God…."

_OUCH!_

Mozzie gasped, clutching at his side. Belatedly, he realized Neal had punched him. He reflexively glared before he saw the expression of utter horror on his friend's face.

"I- I'm so sorry…." Neal swallowed. "W-what are you doing here? No…."

Mozzie just shrugged. "Ah, don't worry–"

"No. Oh, please, no."

"Neal–"

"Y-you're not supposed to be here. _You can't be here!_ You can't– how did they find you?"

"It's okay–"

"Oh God, what have I done? I must have told them…. Moz, I swear, I didn't mean to–"

"Neal, calm down. _Neal!"_ Mozzie took a deep breath. "You didn't tell them. Listen to me, _you didn't tell them_. I came on my own."

"You…. They didn't catch you?"

Mozzie shook his head. "I came to get you. I got into the base, faked an asthma attack, then knocked out the doctor – it's a long story. Peter and Diana Berrigan helped me–"

"Peter?" asked Neal hoarsely.

"The Suit's here too. I found him, just like you told me, remember?"

"You – you figured it out?"

"Of course I did," exclaimed Mozzie with fake cheer. "Did you have any doubts?"

"No," replied Neal with a shy smile. "I – Moz…."

"Don't worry about it," said Mozzie. Then he glanced at his wristwatch and turned grim. "Listen, we need to get out of here. Do you think you can walk?"

"I…. probably." Neal took a deep breath before pushing his feet across the side of the bed.

"Great. Okay. We can do this." Mozzie took a deep breath. "Okay, so Sally's looking for a way out. I'm going to get you some clothes – oh! I forgot." He took off his left shoe and began messing with the sole, until he revealed a small compartment and pulled out a tiny round capsule. "Here they are; colored eye contacts. I got plain hazel for you – I hope they're the right size; Hale's friend had to guess from your photo. Then there's this…." He pulled a fake beard out of the secret pocket of his suit. "It's ugly, but it's distinctively not you, so…. I wanted to get you glasses too, but I feared they wouldn't get through a scanner. Oh, by the way, we owe June a small fortune … most of our money was at the apartment when the FBI found you, and I had to pay for a lot of stuff…. "

Putting all the trinkets on the bed, Mozzie tried to remember if there was anything else. He decided not to worry about how stiffly Neal was sitting, very obviously not touching any of the things Mozzie had just showed him. "Okay, put these on while I get you some better clothes."

Neal's eyes widened in fear when Mozzie moved toward the door. "Wait–"

"I'll be right back," promised Mozzie soothingly, then hurried towards the door and back into the infirmary.

He checked the computer screen, relieved that he could use the keyboard again. He asked Sally where the nearest storage room was, then told her to look into the less obvious ways out of the building. Somehow, he managed to sneak out, find a storage closet in a nearby corridor and collect a janitorial uniform without being noticed.

When he returned to the infirmary, Mozzie was surprised to find Neal sitting on the chair in front of the computer, hugging himself as he stared at the screen.

"Hey," said Mozzie.

Startled, Neal stood up, almost knocking over the chair. He stared at Mozzie with visible fear before relaxing just the tiniest bit. "Hey."

Mozzie gave him an encouraging smile. "I brought you the clothes, see?"

Neal had already put on the fake beard, but he hadn't yet touched the contacts. When Mozzie offered him the clothes, he stared at it without comprehension for a moment, then finally accepted it and started putting it on. Resisting the urge to stare, Mozzie turned away to give his friend a bit of privacy.

He checked his watch again. It had already been over half an hour since Brett had brought him here, which meant they were running out of time.

"Please…?"

He turned around to find Neal's hands shaking as he tried to button up his shirt. Neal's face was filled with shame as he gave Mozzie a pleading look. "Here, let me help," said Mozzie understandingly. "See? All good. Now, if you can put on the contacts … Neal…?"

Neal clenched his fists and looked away.

Mozzie cleared his throat. "Never mind, we can do this. Look at the ceiling, then at me and try not to blink…."

It took them a few tries, but finally they succeeded in putting the lenses on. With the beard, different eye color and the new clothes, Mozzie finally declared Neal's disguise passable, though he was still recognizable on a closer look.

Mozzie looked at the screen again. "Okay, it seems Sally has found us a way out. There's a small door that requires a key card, but Sally says she can circumvent that. We have a car outside–"

"No."

"What?" asked Mozzie in disbelief. "Neal, we have to go _now_–"

Neal shook his head. "W-we can't leave Peter here."

"Oh." _Damn it_, how did he keep forgetting these things?

Before he had seen the state that Neal was in, Mozzie had had a plan to get them all out. Now, he was almost tempted to say screw Burke and Berrigan. Neal was barely keeping it together, and Mozzie was so tired – how was this even his life? He was a _scientist_, for Christ's sake; he wasn't made for this spy and sneaking around stuff. The suits, they were trained agents, they could figure it out. Besides, they worked for the government, and Mozzie didn't feel very charitable about the authorities right now. And if Burke hadn't led the CIA to Neal, they wouldn't even be here in the first place….

_They could just leave. With Sally controlling the cameras and Peter still keeping the CIA occupied, nobody would be the wiser. By the time the CIA found out, he and Neal would be long gone, and hopefully Moz would never find out what happened afterwards.…_

Mozzie swallowed the bile in his throat. "No. You're - you're right. We can't leave them here." He took a shaky breath. "They took our phones; I can't text them. I'm sorry, but … we'll have to split up."

Neal gave him a tense nod. "Okay."

"I'll wake up the doctor, tell him he fainted or something … then I'll let Brett take me back to Peter and Diana.… You'll go on your own. I'm so sorry…."

"It's okay. I- I can do it."

_Damn it!_ "Okay," echoed Mozzie hollowly. "See the map? You do your thing, walk out… we'll meet at the parking place. Okay?" _Please make it to the parking place._

"Okay."

"Okay." Blinking back tears again, Mozzie squeezed Neal's shoulder. "You should go first–"

"No."

"_**Neal…!"**_ _What now? What the _hell_ was wrong now?_

Neal swallowed. "T-the doctor. He'll check if I'm still there…."

_Damn it, damn it – _

"Okay, you stay there until after I'm gone. Take this," said Mozzie. "Sally's still in control of the cameras. You wait until the doctor opens the door, then shoot him."

Neal looked at the item in his hand. "Your tranq pen?"

"I told you it would come in handy one day."

Neal nodded. "Thanks, Moz."

Mozzie swallowed. "Good luck, kid."

_If anything went wrong – this didn't work– _

Mozzie shook his head. It was time to bring this to an end.

o - o - o

"We'll update you if we find anything new on Caffrey," said Greeves as he handed Peter his phone back.

"And we'll do the same," said Peter with a polite smile.

"Thank you for meeting with us," said Diana as she too accepted her phone back. Next to them, Mozzie grunted something unrecognizable.

Behind his calm façade, Peter was barely managing to hide his tension. The moment Mozzie and Brett had rejoined them, Mozzie's body language had told Peter that they had to get out as fast as possible. Thankfully, his conversation with Greeves had been almost over anyway. Peter didn't know what was going on, but the way Mozzie was acting, it was pretty clear that he really didn't want to be around to find out.

"Let me see you out of the complex," said Greeves as he led them out of the building. Next to Peter, Mozzie stiffened and blanched.

It was dark outside when they started walking towards the parking lot.

"I'm really glad we could finally meet," said Peter casually. "I'm looking forward to cooperating on this case."

"As am I," replied Greeves. "Goodbye, Agent Burke. I'll open and close the gate behind you." He then went to the gate while Peter, Diana and Mozzie continued to Peter's Taurus.

They were almost at the car when Peter heard a soft moan. He froze before walking to the other side of the car. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the broken figure lying on the ground. Despite the dusk and the beard on his face, Peter recognized him immediately.

"Shit!"

"Give me the keys, boss. I'm a better driver," said Diana in a low voice.

Peter nodded. "All right."

"P-ter…." Neal whispered.

Peter swallowed. "Shhhh. It's okay…. Come on, buddy…."

By the time Peter and Mozzie dragged Neal in the car and deposited him on the back seat next to Moz, Diana had already adjusted her seat and the mirrors. As she started the car and pulled out, the gate began to open.

Mozzie pushed Neal to the car floor just before Greeves turned around.

"Slow and easy," muttered Diana as she drove them to the gate.

For a moment, Peter thought he saw a flicker of suspicion in the CIA agent's face, but then Greeves let them drive through the gate without trouble.

Peter exhaled. "They didn't see him."

When they took a turn, the CIA facility disappeared from their sight. Mozzie had just pulled Neal up when they heard a shrill of the alarm coming from the facility.

"_Fuck!"_

"Looks like they just found out," said Diana. She then increased the car speed as much as she dared.

"I'm calling Hughes, then you can call your contacts," said Peter grimly. Diana gave him a wordless nod as she drove them through the woods.

However, as Peter tried to dial Hughes's number, he realized his phone wasn't working. "Damn it!"

"Try mine," offered Diana.

"They might be blocking your phones," said Mozzie. "They did that to me, before. Besides, we should probably toss them before they track us."

"What? I'm not–"

"He's probably right, boss," said Diana grimly.

Peter sighed. "Fine." He pulled out his phone and took out the battery again before turning to Diana "Give me your too."

"We need to change the car," said Neal softly once Peter was done with the phones.

"Are you crazy? We're not stealing someone's car!" exclaimed Peter.

Neal flinched.

"We can't drive all the way to New York, Suit," opposed Mozzie. "For that matter, we can't drive _anywhere_. The CIA has our description. If they find us–"

"I have a friend who's waiting for us nearby," said Diana suddenly.

"The 'precautions' you spoke about?" asked Peter.

Diana nodded.

"Who's this 'friend'?" asked Mozzie skeptically. "Are you absolutely sure we can trust him?"

"Positive. I've known Charlie since I was a kid. He never let me down before."

"It will be all right," said Peter with confidence he didn't really feel.

Clutching Mozzie's hand, Neal kept staring forward, his posture stiff and tense, not uttering a single word.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

o - o - o


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Before they went underground, they stopped in a small town where Peter called Hughes from a convenience store. He gave him the short version of the story with a promise to explain things fully in person, and then asked him to call El for him. Then they left the Taurus behind and walked for ten minutes until they found Charlie, Diana's old bodyguard, who was already waiting for them in front of the local library with his own car. The man offered them sanctuary and took them to his home.

When they reached the apartment, Charlie had told them to make themselves comfortable, but none of them could shake off the tension of the past few hours. Instead, Diana had settled for talking with Charlie about her father and his vast contacts, trying to recall who she knew personally and who could be of most help in their current situation, while Mozzie somehow produced another phone and was alternately talking to someone and watching over Neal. Peter had made himself comfortable in an armchair even as he watched the apartment door in case they had been tracked here, and Neal… Neal was simply sitting on the couch with an unreadable expression, completely quiet except for the occasional one-word reply to Mozzie's inquires.

Around midnight, Charlie went to bed. Diana then spent some time talking to Peter before grabbing some blankets and making herself comfortable on the mat of Charlie's small dojo. However, Peter, Mozzie and Neal remained awake, each of them seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

At two a.m., Peter had given up on trying to fall asleep and picked a book from Charlie's bookshelf. It was about two hours later when he noticed Mozzie sneaking out of the apartment.

"Hey. Where're you going?"

Mozzie shook his head. "Oh, don't mind me. I'll be back in a moment."

"It's four in the morning; it's not safe out there. Come on, sit down with me."

Mozzie gave him a long-suffering sigh. Then he briefly disappeared into the kitchen before returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Did you just take that from our host's fridge?"

"It's a cheap and common brand. I'll replace it later."

Grabbing a chair next to Peter, Mozzie poured them each a glass of wine. Peter murmured his thanks. For a moment, they remained silent before Mozzie's eyes wandered to Neal, who had finally been conquered by exhaustion and dozed off into a restless sleep. Following Mozzie's gaze, Peter grimaced before taking a sip from his glass.

"It won't be all right, will it?" spoke Mozzie suddenly.

A pause.

"I trust Hughes and Bancroft," said Peter at last. "If we have faith–"

"Faith's not going to fix what they did to him, Suit."

"No," said Peter slowly. "But that's why we have to stop Greeves and his people. We have to believe that the system works, and if we reach out–"

"The _system_ is what did this to him! How can you trust the government after seeing what they did?"

"You seem to forget I work for the government," replied Peter. He paused. "What the CIA did – I refuse to believe it was anything other than actions of a few corrupt individuals. There are people who will listen to us."

Mozzie shook his head. "'And all world is made of trust and pixie dust.' You talk about belief and faith and 'goodness', but … people suck, Peter."

"Look, Mozzie–"

"I would have left you there."

Peter stilled. "What are you talking about?"

Mozzie looked away. "At the facility, I knew that if they had caught us – I came there for Neal. When I saw how he was, I just.…"

"You _bastard_."

"I know." Mozzie gulped down the rest of his glass in one go. "When I was a kid and got adopted…. It changed everything. The universe – I thought it was giving me a _sign_. I was so sure that I was going to fix the world, do something good.… Now look at me."

Mozzie moved to take a swig from the bottle, but Peter stopped him. "Don't."

"Why not? … Let's face it, all of this is my fault. I should have never been a scientist. I wanted to find a new treatment for brain damage, and instead my best friend was kidnapped. The CIA hurt people because of me.… I should have just let them have me. If I hadn't called Neal–"

"Cut the crap, Mozzie. The self-pity doesn't suit you."

"What?"

Peter sighed. "You're not responsible for what the CIA did. No matter what happened to Neal–"

"They tortured him."

Peter felt an ice grip squeeze his heart.

"I talked to Sa-someone. She hacked into the CIA records. What they did to him.…"

Peter tried very hard to fight the sick feeling. "If we want to stop them, we have to come forward. I'm an FBI agent with almost fifteen years of experience, and if Diana and you back me up–"

"It won't help," interrupted Mozzie. "Even a blind person can see how loyal your agent is to you. And nobody will believe _me_. They'll just say I'm crazy."

Peter frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. I've run your name. You're a professor at a reputable university, and you seem to be respected in biomedicine circles–"

"It won't matter if they get hands on my medical files…. Paranoid Personality Disorder. I was diagnosed when I was fourteen."

_Damn it!_

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I'm _fine_. And would you have believed me about Neal if I told you before?" Mozzie sighed. "Anyway, I'm telling you now, so…."

"Great. This is just great."

Agitated, Peter stood and started pacing the room.

For a moment, he contemplated keeping the information secret, but if the CIA found out….

_They probably already knew. _

Peter felt if as his hopes of a peaceful, _right_ solution were slowly shattered to pieces. He swallowed. "If we want to have any chance of being listened to, we'll need Neal to give a statement."

Mozzie jumped up from his chair. "What?! Have you _seen_ him? Peter, he's barely holding up; he's in no shape to give a _statement–"_

"I know! But without any evidence–"

"Oh, we have evidence all right," said Mozzie mirthlessly.

Peter paused. "What are you talking about?"

Mozzie hesitated. "I think it's time I told you about my hacker friend…."

o - o - o

In the morning, Diana and Charlie visited Mr. Berrigan, a once-time diplomat and a current advisor of one of the US senators. In the meantime, Peter met with Hughes, while Mozzie went to see Sally about the documents that she had managed to download while she had had access to the CIA database.

The three of them spent the next week going over everything Sally had managed to get her hands on. Between Peter's experience, Diana's investigative instincts and Mozzie's vast scientific knowledge, they eventually assembled a strong case to prove the CIA conspiracy.

Peter was pleased with their progress, and was slowly regaining faith in their ability to expose the CIA's wrongdoings. He had repeatedly met with Hughes and Bancroft and even spoke once to Mr. Berrigan. Together, they were working on a legal solution. Bancroft and Berrigan seemed confident that they would be able to get Peter and Mozzie a meeting with the Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs. At the same time, Mozzie threatened to put the evidence online if the Senate didn't hear them out, and Peter had to talk to him about the advantages of patience and waiting, stopping the scientist from doing anything rash.

Yet despite all of his determination, Peter felt like he was being torn apart.

He hadn't seen Elizabeth in days; in fear of being found, they were moving from place to place, and Peter had only talked to El a couple of times on the phone and exchanged a few messages through Hughes. And then there was Neal, who was a mere shadow of the man Peter had once known and admired.

Though he followed them to whatever place they were currently hiding, Neal still barely spoke a word to anyone, including Mozzie. The once so-charming con man was barely going through the motions, and Peter couldn't fail to notice the way Neal flinched whenever someone made a loud sound or approached him too quickly. He was barely eating, and more than once, Peter had found himself awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of Neal's screams. However, when he tried to talk to Neal or clumsily comfort him after a nightmare, the other man just brushed him off, giving him his con smile that was so obviously fake that Peter wanted to hit someone.

It wasn't right.

Christmas Day had come and passed. Separated from their loved ones, none of them felt in much mood for a celebration.

On the eleventh day since they had rescued Neal, Peter finally found himself cracking under the pressure. He had a yelling argument with Mozzie that had sent Neal hiding who knew where, and then almost snapped at Diana who had spent the day cozying up to some senators and was only doing her job. Mentally exhausted, Peter slammed the apartment door behind himself and went running, trying to clear his head so he could focus on the job.

An hour later, Peter found himself in a park, thinking of how things had gotten so out of control. They were all tired, tense and edgy, but there was no point in taking it out on each other.

He was going to fix this. He didn't know how yet, but he was going to fix it all. With his purpose renewed, Peter found his way back to their apartment.

The meeting with the Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs could not come soon enough.

o - o - o

Once again, Mozzie found himself in the bathroom, throwing up until everything that he had had for lunch ended in the toilet.

_One hundred and forty-seven. _That was how many deaths there had been during the course of "Project Lethe".

Every day, seeing Neal's newfound fear was incredibly painful. And yet, Mozzie was now thinking that his friend had still been lucky – as much as you could speak of luck anyway.

When the CIA first began adapting his procedure, they hadn't been careful enough as they messed with people's brains. Therefore, a third of the initial "test subjects" had died of strokes, aneurysms, drug overdoses and even brain tumors before the procedure had been "optimized". Even afterwards, there was still an occasional case that somehow went wrong, though they had become few and far between. According to the files, the CIA had managed to test their procedure on over one thousand people.

Flushing the toilet, Mozzie tried to stand up on his feet. He wavered when a strong hand caught him mid-fall and kept him upright. "Hey…."

Cleaning his face and looking up, Mozzie finally looked at his companion. "Hi."

With a grimace, Diana looked him over. "How long have you been at the files this time, Handerson? When did you last sleep?"

"I'm fine–"

"You're unraveling. You're no good to anyone if you have a breakdown."

"If you're going to tell me to cowboy up–" started Mozzie warningly.

"Stop torturing yourself and take a break," said Diana. "Read a book, cook dinner, go out – I don't care. But you won't help anyone if you drive yourself to the ground."

"They killed people," croaked Mozzie. "I invented this and they _killed_ people–"

Diana sighed. "Come on, sit down with me."

She poured them both a shot of scotch.

Mozzie frowned. "What…?"

"Sit down and listen."

Reluctantly, Mozzie accepted the seat opposite her. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then Diana began to talk.

"My second case as a probie was a disaster. Even though Peter told me it wasn't my fault, I still blamed myself for what had happened…."

o - o - o

_The first thing he noticed as he came to himself was that the world was shaking. There was a bowl with vomit in his lap, but the quivering hands that were holding it felt disconnected from the rest of his body. Slowly, he realized that someone had an arm around his shoulders, keeping him upright. He felt like they'd smashed his skull and ripped out his brain._

_A steady hand removed the bowl from his lap and cleaned his face. _

"_Better?"_

"_N-no."_

"_It's a common side effect after the procedure. We already gave you something to manage the migraine. It should become bearable in a few moments." _

_The earthquake wasn't from the outside; his own body was trembling. Slowly, taking deep breaths, he managed to get the shaking to subside. He realized he was in hospital gown, sitting on a bed, staring at a linoleum floor. _

_What…?_

"_Do you remember your name?" asked the same voice again._

_His name…. "Neal Caffrey," he said at last._

"_Good. What year is it?"_

"_I…." Neal hesitated. "2012?"_

"_Correct. Now, do you remember where you are?"_

_Lifting his head Neal tried to look around for clues while he racked his mind to remember…._

"_Neal?"_

_The voice was familiar…. Looking up and sideways, Neal stiffened when he recognized the familiar face. "Davis."_

"_So you remember. That's good to know." The agent removed his arm from around Neal's shoulders and stood up. _

"_You … my head…." The last thing he remembered was talking to Davis about something … but when had that been? How did he get here and what had they done to him in the meantime?_

"_What's going on?"_

"_You don't remember?" asked Davis. _

"_I…."_

"_You signed a contract, Neal. We gave you a new brain so we could fix you. You're a CIA agent now."_

"_WHAT?!" _

_Suddenly, Davis turned into Adams, who frowned at him. "You're still flawed. Move your ass, Caffrey. The board is waiting for you…."_

_**NO!**_

With a scream, Neal shot up in the bed. Trembling all over, he scrambled up, knowing he had to get away, _run, hide…._ Then he almost tripped over something, and he realized it was Mozzie in a sleeping bag on the floor.

What was Mozzie doing there?!

In horror, Neal moved to wake Moz up … and then he remembered. He wasn't in the facility anymore.

Of course. He had gotten away, thanks to Moz and Peter. He had heard that Diana, Sally and some of his other friends had helped too, but it had been Peter and Mozzie who had really rescued him from there. Neal still couldn't believe that Mozzie had been the mastermind behind most of it. He loved Moz, but his friend hadn't planned a real con ever since he'd been twelve years old.

_The CIA couldn't touch him. He'd gotten away. He was safe here._

Neal didn't feel safe at all.

Stepping over Mozzie's body, he made his way to the kitchen. Trying to stop the tremors in his hands, he washed his face again and again…. It wasn't helping. They had used him, broken him; they had violated his mind and soul and nothing Mozzie or Peter said made it any better. He was dirty and so goddamn scared, and he had thought that he was so smart but they had found his weakness and kidnapped him. They had stripped him of his charm, his silver tongue, his courage and his sense of self, and Neal tried to fake it but it wasn't working, because he had betrayed Moz, and he might not have wanted to but he had still done it–

He should have protected Mozzie, but instead it had been him who had needed to be rescued.

_He dreamed of forgetting his own name, and he dreamed of Mozzie being tortured, and sometimes it was Neal who held the cloth to his face. He dreamed of shooting Peter, and didn't want to but then Davis held his hand and Neal did it and then walked away. Some days, he dreamed of his mother, Ellen, and June, and his mother didn't care but Ellen and June were disappointed that he was a pathetic failure. But most times he dreamed of the cold cell and the waterboard and the mind device, and he begged to be left alone but it never worked, because they always came back, always found him…._

He didn't know who he was anymore.

Neal's stomach clenched in hunger, so he opened a cabinet and found some bread, but despite or maybe because of the pain he couldn't make himself eat more than half a slice. He knew he hadn't been eating much, but everything tasted like ashes in his mouth. He sometimes pretended when Mozzie was around, but he knew his friend wasn't being fooled. Moz tried to talk to him, tried being gentle, tried the hard approach, tried conning him or even begging with him, but Neal couldn't find it in himself to care. Everything was bleak and gray, and in the end, even hunger seemed like a better distraction from the world around him. At least the physical pain sometimes took him away from the mess in his head and gave him focus, even for a few minutes.

He wanted to run, but even more he wanted to hide somewhere; to fall sleep and never be found again.

Peter, Mozzie and Diana were all focusing on making a case against the CIA. Neal had seen them going over the documents that Sally had stolen when she had hacked the CIA database. In five days, Peter and Mozzie were going to present their case in front of the Senate committee, and Neal had heard that Mozzie had secretly met with one of the FBI psychologists and Hughes' friends who had given a written statement to confirm Mozzie's sanity. Neal had been watching them from afar, but he hadn't volunteered his help. Instead, he had been making his own plans.

Peter believed that they could expose the CIA and then everything would return to normal, but he was wrong. Deep down, Neal knew the Senate was never going to believe them, and then he would either be arrested, or the CIA would find a way to bring him back to their lab.

He couldn't stay here.

The first few days, there had always been someone keeping their eyes on him; Mozzie, Peter or even Diana, but now they were all tired and their attention had slipped. Neal worried about waking them up, but then he had always been good at sneaking away unnoticed. Tiptoeing around the apartment, he collected a small rucksack, which he filled with clothes and some barest necessities. He paused at the door. Given the nature of his escape, Neal had few things that belonged to him, and the weather outside was going to be cold. Hesitating for a moment, Neal put on Peter's coat and Mozzie's scarf.

With one last glance, Neal looked at Mozzie, Peter and Diana's sleeping forms. The he slipped out of the apartment.

o - o - o

Peter had prepared for this. He had spent countless hours talking to Hughes, Bancroft and Diana's dad, then almost as long talking to his lawyer, finally writing his speech and talking with Bancroft and Mr. Berrigan again. It was the second week of January, seven weeks since he had tried to arrest Neal, four weeks since he, Mozzie and Diana had rescued him from the CIA. Yet as he sat behind a table in a small office of the Senate Building in Washington DC, wearing his best suit and an expensive tie, Peter couldn't help the chill that ran across his spine.

He'd been warned that this would take a while, but he hadn't expected the wait to last nearly two hours. He was strongly aware of the security guards who were watching him, but tried to keep his calm and focus and not let that affect him. He had done his best and more; he had practiced what he would say in front of Diana, Hughes, Mozzie and anyone who'd listen; he had thought of possible objections and the way he would counter the inevitable disbelief or disdain.

He hadn't seen Elizabeth in four weeks, though he knew she was in an FBI safe house somewhere, no doubt upset about their separation and not being able to handle her catering business. On top of that, Neal had disappeared two weeks ago, and even Mozzie swore that he didn't know where Neal was, though supposedly he had left a note that he had gone of his own volition.

Suddenly, the door opened and Bancroft walked out. "They want to speak to you now, Peter."

"Thank you, sir."

Standing up, Peter cleared his throat, then clenched his fists, then unclenched them again. Taking a deep breath, he walked through the door to the chamber where the Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs was waiting for him.

It was time to stop the CIA and get their lives back.

o - o - o

The bed sheets that had been kicked away long ago were lying in a heap on the floor next to the bed. Despite the snowstorm outside, the room was hot, reeking of sweat and sex. Too tired for any more action, Mozzie placed a kiss on the side of Sally's neck, then watched her naked form as she sat up and pushed her legs over the edge of the bed. He admired her perfectly shaped breasts and her neckline as Sally bent down to pick up the sheets, and then smiled at her when she covered them both with a single blanket. Then they cuddled as their bodies slowly began to cool down.

As they stared at each other, holding hands, Mozzie cleared his throat. "Does this mean you forgive me for skipping on you earlier?"

"Don't do it again," said Sally firmly.

"I'm not an idiot," replied Mozzie.

"Good."

For a long while, they remained lying there in silence.

It had been a week since Peter and Mozzie's appearance in front of the Senate committee. Despite all their preparations, despite Peter's brilliance and his speech skills, despite all the overwhelming evidence, Mozzie had been sure that they wouldn't be believed. When the Committee had promised to look into the operation, Mozzie had felt that his fears had been justified, and started planning on leaking the evidence to the public, no matter the consequences to himself. Then two days ago, Peter had called him with the unofficial news from Diana's dad that the operation was being shut down entirely and that Greeves was facing a disciplinary hearing. Peter and Diana faced no repercussions for their actions, Neal had been cleared of all charges in the Mondrian case, and Mozzie could go back to his university and his research, free to resume his life and take his job back as if nothing had happened.

The first thing Mozzie had done was to call his dad and Mr. Jeffries, letting them know that he was all right and that he would see them soon. However, he still had to tie up several loose ends. One of them was the gorgeous woman that was currently lying next to him in bed.

As it turned out, Sally's place might have been perfectly protected against hackers, spies and intrusive governments, but it lacked in matters of proper window insulation.

"I think we better get dressed," said Mozzie reluctantly when yet another shiver ran through Sally's body.

"Fine."

Pulling apart, they began to put their clothes on. Later, they reunited in the kitchen, where Mozzie had already started to make them a pot of Hot Toddy. Wrapping her arms around him, Sally gave Mozzie a peck on the cheek before sitting down on a bar chair by the kitchen counter. When he was done, Mozzie split the drink into two large mugs and took the place opposite Sally.

With a smile, Sally accepted her mug. "Thanks, Mozzie."

"'We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.'" Mozzie hesitated. "Sally, I…. what you did for me and Neal…."

"You mean how I hacked into the CIA database?" asked Sally with no small amount of pride. "I didn't mind. It was fun."

"Just ... thank you."

"You're welcome."

Mozzie cleared his throat. "I, err … can I ask you a favor? The Senate promised to shut down the operation, but I'm not sure if … well..."

"You want me to keep an eye on the CIA for a while," surmised Sally.

"I can't let them do this again," said Mozzie.

Sally nodded. "They're changing all their encryptions and codes, but…. I can still try."

"Okay."

Mozzie smiled at the pleasing news. Of course, he was already working a few other angles himself, in case Sally had said no and because it never hurt to keep one's options open. At the same time, Mozzie was well aware that the Vulture was the best hacker in the whole US. It was good to know that Sally had his back.

With the CIA situation under control, he had to figure out what to do next.

Mozzie knew he could easily just step back into the shoes of Paul Handerson. His university job was still there, his absence explained away as a courtesy of the government. But even if it wasn't for the controversy about his research, Mozzie didn't know if he could go back to his old life. Over the last three months, he had been on the run, had rediscovered his criminal skills, fallen in love and faced the FBI, the CIA and a Senate committee. Suddenly, going back to the laboratory seemed boring, no matter how much Mozzie enjoyed doing research.

But his decision could wait. First, Mozzie had to take care of his family.

o - o - o

It was late in the evening. The bar was full of people, with most guests sitting around drinking their beverages, while a few couples danced to the live music of a local jazz band. In the background was a pool table, where men were hustling and trying to take each other for a couple of twenties or the occasional fifty.

Of all the players, the most talented was a handsome man with a charming smile and incredibly blue eyes. Dressed in a cheap suit and a ridiculous hat, he looked like bad imitation of someone from the old Rat Pack group. However, whenever his hands lifted the cue, his touch was steady, his game perfect as he delivered one ball after the other into the pockets.

Finally, the young hustler put the eight-ball into the called pocket and gave his competitor and the audience a megawatt smile. "Good game. Anyone else fancy a rematch, gentlemen?"

"Against you? There's no point," one of the bystanders snorted.

"Don't worry, Dino. You'll find a new sucker next time," said the man's competitor with a friendly smile and patted his shoulder, ignoring how the other man flinched and pulled away.

It soon became apparent that the other people of the group shared that sentiment. When he realized that he would have no more luck in that club that night, Neal collected his winnings and said goodbye to the group. Then he put on his coat and exited the bar, bracing himself against the cold of the winter night as he headed into the streets.

Feeling the cash buried deep in his inner pocket, Neal watched his surroundings as he walked quickly towards his apartment.

He jumped at the unexpected honking of a distant car, pressing his back against the wall of a closed shop. When he realized there was no danger, he continued walking, but kept looking over his shoulder. When he saw a loud group of drunk men walking over the street in his direction, he hid behind the nearby corner and waited until they passed. By the time he finally reached his apartment ten minutes away from the bar, he was sweating, his hands were shaking again and he felt like he had just run a marathon.

Finding his keys, Neal unlocked his door and then stepped inside. He closed the door again and then collapsed against it, taking heavy, harsh breaths. When he played pool surrounded by warm light, jazz and drinks, he could put on the façade and _almost_ pretend that he was still the same man as before. However, as soon as the door closed behind him, his mask slipped off and he was once again drowning; a broken shadow of his former personality.

With the last bits of strength, Neal pulled away from the door and went further inside his apartment. The place was a mess, a perfect reflection of the inside of his soul. The kitchen sink was filled with dirty plates, the trash was overflowing with empty food packages and the corner of the room had a damaged easel and several torn canvases.

Neal collapsed onto an empty chair, put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

He had run away, thinking that he would feel safer in his anonymity, but it hadn't been enough. He still felt like the CIA was just an inch behind him, that they would grab him any moment now and drag him back to his cell. He thought about leaving town, but then he realized that it wouldn't be enough; they would still be able to track him down.

No, what he needed was a new start. He would leave the country and go far, far away, somewhere where even Greeves and Davis wouldn't be able to find him. He'd need new papers – he didn't think he could handle them himself, but he still knew how to find some of the old competition and he had made enough playing pool over the last few weeks to be able to afford a new passport and a new identity.

_Tomorrow. He was going to get them tomorrow._

Neal tested the decision in his head, and found that it didn't bring him any peace or relief. But he didn't really have a choice.

Standing up, Neal was about to grab something for dinner when he stiffened.

Someone knocked at the door.

_They had found him._

_There was a window and a fire escape – _

The knocking got more persistent. _"Neal? Neal, it's me."_

Neal stilled when he recognized the voice. "Moz?" he called tentatively.

"_Right here, man. Listen, can you open the door, or do I have to pull out my lock picks?"_

For a moment, Neal hesitated. Then he went to let his friend in. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"You told me about this safe house a few years back, remember? Of course, it took me three weeks to find the exact address, but I knew I'd find you eventually." Unfazed, Mozzie stepped inside. "Wow. I love what you've done with this place…. Neal–"

"I'm fine, Moz," replied Neal automatically, not liking the expression on Mozzie's face. "Are you sure you weren't followed? The CIA–"

"They can't bother you anymore. Peter and I, we went to the Senate. They shut the whole thing down."

"It's a trick," replied Neal immediately.

"No, it's not, and believe me, _I_ was skeptical." Mozzie took a deep breath. "Diana's dad is keeping us informed about the Senate, Hughes is in touch with his NSA contacts and Sally is watching the CIA and listening to rumors. They shut down their 'research centers'. Greeves's been fired and everyone else involved in the project is being suspended and under investigation. The CIA even admitted framing you for stealing the Mondrian…. Neal, it's over."

_It couldn't be right. He would have known…. It_ had_ to be a trick._

Wordlessly, Neal just shook his head.

Mozzie gave him a sad smile. "Listen, kid, I think we need to talk…."

o - o - o

Sitting in the kitchen, eating dinner with Elizabeth and watching Satchmo as he wiggled his tail in his bed, Peter once again exhaled in relief and released the tension that he hadn't properly acknowledged until he felt it let go of his heart.

The last few weeks had been horrible. First the CIA, then being in hiding, not being able to see El, then nearly losing his job…. He had gotten his badge back two weeks ago, but even now, a part of him still expected OPR to return and suspend him for what had legally been a break-in into the facility of another government agency.

Looking at Elizabeth, Peter relaxed even more when she smiled at him. They had talked about the whole thing, but Peter knew El still wasn't okay with what had happened. He wondered how long it would take them to get completely back to normal, before they would stop calling each other just a bit too often, holding each other a bit too close or tossing in the bed restlessly at night.

But they had time.

Suddenly, Elizabeth chuckled.

"What?" asked Peter in confusion.

"You're staring at me," said El. "It's…."

"Creepy?"

El smiled. "No, it was – you looked – happy. It was actually kind of sweet."

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. "I love you so much, hon…."

This was them. And Peter had always loved the small moments, always knew how to appreciate the simple things, but now that he had come home, he felt it even stronger than before.

"You want to watch a movie later?" asked Peter. "Just you, me and Satchmo, some beer, no distractions…."

"Sounds perfect," said El with a smile.

He was the luckiest man in the universe.

They settled on a romantic comedy, and Peter was just about to put the DVD in the player when Satchmo rose up in his bed and someone knocked at the door.

Peter and El exchanged a look.

"I'll get it," said Peter. He went to the door, determined to get rid of the intruder as quickly as possible so he and El could return to their evening.

Pushing down his irritation, Peter opened the door – and stilled.

"Hey," said Neal softly.

Peter cleared his throat. "Hey yourself."

He waited for Neal to speak up, but the younger man remained silent. Looking him over, Peter felt a mixture of worry and sadness. Neal had clearly lost weight, and judging by the circles around his eyes, he was barely sleeping, but the thing that hurt the most was the haunted look in his eyes. Peter was once again reminded that the CIA might have been out of their lives now, but the effects of their actions would stay with them long after they had left the facility behind.

_If he hadn't tried to arrest Neal…._

But it was now water under the bridge, and Peter couldn't take it back even if he wanted. Besides, knowing how many future victims might have been saved by revealing the conspiracy, Peter couldn't regret doing his job, even knowing how much suffering they had caused in the long run – and to Neal in particular.

He wondered whether Neal blamed him for that.

"You left without speaking to me," said Peter the first thing that came to his mind.

"I didn't talk to anyone."

"Right."

The door was open as they stood there in silence. Behind Neal, snowflakes were falling from the sky.

"You want to come in?" asked Peter, breaking the silence again.

He watched the shudder that ran through Neal's body, but then Neal braced himself and stepped inside. Closing the door behind him, Peter felt like he was treading a completely unknown territory.

"So, how are you holding up?" asked Peter.

Silence.

"I – they did something to my brain," said Neal at last. "Somehow, they – I can't paint. I can't draw, and I tried but I _can't_, and…." Neal cleared his throat. "Mozzie said that it was over, but…. You wouldn't lie to me. I need to know if…."

_Oh God._

"It's over," said Peter resolutely. "They're done. The Senate ended the project. Your name has been cleared, too. You can go home, Neal."

"Okay."

Half-turning away, Neal looked as if he was about to walk out of the door.

It was wrong, thought Peter dejectedly. It was wrong and he didn't know how to fix it–

"Hon?"

Peter turned around when Elizabeth appeared in the hallway.

"Hey, hon," he said awkwardly. "This is Neal. Neal, this is El. I think you've met on some of your events before, right hon?"

"We have," said El.

Neal gave them a weak smile. "It's nice to see you, Elizabeth. Thanks for talking to me, Peter. I'm going to go…."

"Wait," said Elizabeth. She gave Neal a soothing smile. "Neal, why don't you stay for a while? We have some pot roast left from dinner."

Neal swallowed. "I don't think that's such a good idea…."

"I insist," said Elizabeth.

Very few people had ever been able to tell his wife no. Not surprisingly, Neal Caffrey wasn't an exception.

Peter hoped Elizabeth knew what she was doing, because he certainly had no idea. It wasn't like there was a protocol for inviting over a felon that you had arrested twice and then broken out of a CIA facility.

El gave Neal the rest of the pot roast before they all went to the living room. Peter and El settled on the sofa while Neal took the armchair, looking a bit like a deer caught in the headlights.

El put on her pleasant smile. "So, Neal, Peter told me you work as a security consultant. I heard that you run mock heists as a part of your job.…"

Neal shook his head. "I did, but … I was probably fired. My new boss sort of inherited me from the previous management, and he never really liked me. It's for the best, though…. I don't think I could do that anymore."

"You'll figure it out," said Peter. "You're one of the most brilliant people I know, Caffrey…. Don't let it go into your head."

Neal gave him a weak smile, but didn't say anything.

Peter felt the frustration and grief rise in him again.

Elizabeth on the other hand remained persistent. "So, what is your favorite painting, Neal?"

Neal opened his mouth to answer, when it happened.

"Satchmo!"

Seeing the pot roast in Neal's hands, Peter's dog leaped on the armchair and tried to stick his snout into Neal's plate. Neal, who wasn't anticipating that, cried out and dropped the plate, which broke as soon as it hit the floor. Suddenly losing his interest in the meat, Satchmo settled his front paws Neal's legs and licked Neal's face instead.

Elizabeth stood up first. "I'll fix it," she said and moved to collect the broken plate.

"Satchmo, get down!" Peter shook his head and moved to pull the Lab off. "I'm sorry, Neal–"

But then he stilled when he saw what was happening.

Neal's hands were shaking a bit; however, he was smiling as he gently petted Satchmo's fur.

"There's a great Picasso at the Met that I really like," said Neal with a surprisingly clear voice.

Peter swallowed any sarcastic remarks. "Tell me about it," he said instead.

They sat in the living room, and talked about Picasso, Dalí and Van Gogh while Neal continued petting Satchmo, and then Elizabeth joined them again. At some point, Peter went to get them some beer and some wine, and their conversation turned to one of Peter's old cases that Neal may or may not have heard of before. They talked, and then they finished the wine, and finally Neal fell asleep in the armchair and El covered him with a blanket before she and Peter tiptoed to the kitchen so as not to wake Neal up.

"Elizabeth," murmured Peter as they got to the kitchen. "What–"

"Shhh." El kissed his lips. "Let's go upstairs."

o - o - o

Elizabeth had fallen asleep long ago, but Peter was still tossing and turning in their bed. Finally, he gave it up as a bad job and went downstairs to get a glass of water. He tried to figure what he would do tomorrow.

He was going to work of course, but before that, he was going to drive Neal to June. And then…. Peter sighed.

It was clear from this evening that Neal would need a lot of help to recover from his recent trauma. Peter knew that June and Mozzie would be there for him, and possibly also Hale and Sally. For the first time, he wondered whether he himself could play a part as well.

He and Neal had always liked each other, even when Peter was first chasing Neal, but their relationship had never moved past that fond admiration – until the CIA had gotten involved and everything had changed. Peter liked Neal and had risked everything for him, and Neal trusted Peter when he perhaps shouldn't have – it was a mess.

"Hey."

Startled, Peter turned around. Neal was standing a few feet away, obviously also tired and awake, but unable to sleep.

"Hi, Neal."

Neal cleared his throat. "Sorry I fell asleep. I can go if–"

"Don't even think about it," said Peter. He hesitated. "There's a guest room on the next floor, in case you don't want to sleep on the sofa…."

"I don't think I'm going to get much sleep either way," said Neal with a grimace. "Thanks, though. It means a lot."

"You should at least try," Peter pointed out reasonable. "Besides, Satchmo can keep an eye on you."

Neal gave him a hesitant chuckle. "Okay…."

Peter gulped down the rest of his water. "I'm going back upstairs now. If you want to look at the guest room…."

"The sofa will be fine," said Neal. He bit his lip. "Peter – thanks for coming for me. For getting me out of there."

"It's my job–"

"–to break into a CIA facility?" Neal quirked an eyebrow. "Must be an interesting job, then."

"I–"

"Peter. Thanks."

Peter cleared his throat. "You're welcome," he said at last.

Neal gave him a small smirk before returning to the living room. Peter stared at the empty place for a long time after Neal was already gone. For the first time, he contemplated whether perhaps something good might come out of the whole horrible affair. Then he shrugged, put the glass into the sink and walked back upstairs to El.

_Only time will tell._

**THE END**

* * *

><p><em>AN: To quote another author at this website, I write because I enjoy it, I post because I love getting feedback. A special thanks to Wondo and thank you everyone else who had left a review :)_

_Also, let me once again mention my awesome cheerleaders and beta-readers – __**treonb**__, __**nywcgirl**__ and __**mam711**__, who helped this fic come to life. I couldn't have done this without them._

_Everyone who made it this far, thank you for your time and I hope you enjoyed the story :)_

_Lianne_


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